


All That Matters

by KRyn



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-25 23:50:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3829471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KRyn/pseuds/KRyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Detective Riley's new captain watching him like a hawk, and the clock ticking, John is forced to agree to Harold's alternative plan to get into their current Number's office in order to gather the evidence needed to save the man's life. Finch's foray is successful and all seems well--until a random act of violence changes everything.</p><p>See end notes for spoilers and warnings.</p><p>Updated from original posting: Epilogue added 4/26/15</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TimelessDreamer2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TimelessDreamer2/gifts).



****************************************

_In the end, just three things matter:_  
_How well we have lived,_  
_How well we have loved,_  
_How well we have learned to let go._

****************************************

While he didn't have his partner's specialized training, Harold Finch had lived in the skins of multiple aliases for too many years to treat any undercover role with less than total concentration--even one as simple as an IT repair specialist, called in to deal with an emergency in the dead of night. 

The homestretch was always the most dangerous. With success nearly within reach, the temptation to drop your guard before you made it to safety was always present, a mistake that often had serious consequences. 

Potentially deadly consequences in this case: the owner of the office Finch had just plundered had some extremely lethal 'friends', any one of whom would slit Harold's throat without a second thought if there was even a hint of suspicion that he was not what he seemed.

With that stark threat echoing in his head, Harold made a conscious effort to not to futz with the name tag pinned to the technician's jacket he'd donned for this incursion, and kept his hand steady as he signed out as 'Harry Thacker' under the watchful gaze of the building's security guard. 

With a nod to the guard, he crossed the wide lobby to the front doors, the intensity of the man's regard a laser sight targeting his vulnerable back. It wasn't until a harsh buzzer sounded, unlocking the outer doors and allowing him to step out onto the sidewalk, that he allowed himself the barest exhale of relief. 

He shifted the laptop bag on his shoulder and glanced up and down the street as casually as he could manage, peering past the raindrops that immediately speckled his glasses. Armed with what was--due to some careful hacking and a judiciously released virus--a legitimate summons for emergency computer repair assistance, his presence shouldn't raise any flags, but it never paid to be careless. 

Fortunately, there was no sign of any human surveillance. 

During the day he would have been wedged shoulder to shoulder with the mass of humanity that filled New York City's sidewalks and overflowed into busy traffic, but at nearly two in the morning, the streets were deserted in this section of Midtown, its business and retail establishments long since closed for the night. 

The scene would be markedly different just a few blocks to the east, where the bars were getting ready to close, and 24-hour eateries were still dishing out food to second- and third-shift workers, theater-goers and insomniacs. There the pulse of the City would be beating at its normal late night pace, cabs cruising for fares among the strolling pedestrians, hired town cars flashing by en-route to programmed destinations.

While he normally preferred the anonymity a crowd offered, tonight the dark, empty streets suited his clandestine purposes. 

An unexpectedly cold gust of wind prompted a shiver, and he tugged the zipper of the lightweight blue jacket closer to his neck. The forecasted cold front had arrived earlier than predicted, shifting a cool evening toward soggy early-winter chill, the temperature dropping rapidly during the time he had been inside.

Keeping close to the facade of the towering office building, ostensibly using the building's jutting overhang to keep out of the rain, but also to avoid drawing the attention of other ever-watchful electronic eyes, he made his way toward the next cross street where he had parked. 

As he approached the corner, he couldn't help but look down the street with a sense of frustrated longing and loss. 

The Library was just a few miles away. 

He had passed their old sanctuary just twice since they'd been forced to abandon it, his steps unerringly guiding him there like a homing pigeon seeking its roost. He hadn't dared breach the Library's outer walls. The probability that the building was still under some type of surveillance was extremely high. He refused to step into a potential trap, but he had been torn between the temptation to see if anything had survived, and reluctance to view the damage. 

John would have his head if he knew Harold had been anywhere near it.

He turned left at the corner, firmly suppressing the pain of that loss. That safe haven was gone, and wishful thinking wouldn't change the fact. They had a new headquarters, and although it was still bare bones, it was a place where they could gather safely, work the Numbers, and keep pushing back against Samaritan's stranglehold. 

A place where he and John could snatch moments to be together.

Not that _that_ scenario was scheduled to play out tonight, he accepted ruefully. Reese and Fusco had been called out on a breaking case. With Detective Riley's new captain watching him like a hawk, John had been forced to agree to Harold's alternative plan to get into their current Number's office. They had run out of time and other options. 

Randall Grossman, a 26-year-old accountant, was already in police custody charged with felony embezzlement. He had protested his innocence, but his pleas were falling on deaf ears. There was a great deal of evidence painting him as a criminal--evidence that had been manufactured to frame him, according to the digging Harold had done. Grossman's employer, Mark Connors, on the surface a successful businessman with an eye on entering the City's political arena, had buried ties to one of the Irish mob families. Reese had discovered several crates of weapons in one of Connors' warehouses. Gunrunning was a profitable sideline for Connors, carefully kept off the official books. Grossman had discovered a discrepancy in the warehouse inventory lists, which as a good employee he had brought to his boss's attention. 

Framing the young accountant had kept the spotlight off Connors' illicit activities. John had done everything he could keep their Number isolated and protected in the station house, but those strings had been stretched to the limit. Grossman was due to be transferred to the general population at Rikers that day. Harold had risked tapping into the facility's surveillance cameras, and had caught messages passed between one of the mob family's lawyers and a current inmate, indicating their Number was an easy target, destined to meet an unfortunate death at the sharp end of a hand-crafted prison shank. 

A fresh gust of wind spattered fat, icy raindrops against the side of his face. The weather was worsening quickly. Harold hugged his computer bag to his body, tugged the jacket collar closer to his neck, and increased his pace. 

His foray into Connors' office had been successful. As they'd suspected, Connors had kept a record of his illegal activities, either out of arrogance, or a need to have some leverage against his mob connections should they decide to turn on him. Harold had made both digital and paper copies of the documents and ledgers that would prove Grossman's innocence. Once he got the evidence into John's hands, their Number would be exonerated, and they would pound a few nails into Connors' coffin instead. 

Reaching his car, Harold shivered at the cold water dripping under his collar. He slid onto the front seat, shutting the door quickly. Lip twitching in annoyance as yet another icy trickle made its way down his neck, he swiped a hand across his wet hair, trying to dash the worst of the water away. He shivered again. The inside of the vehicle was nearly as cold as the outer air. No matter. He had a warmer coat in the trunk. He'd retrieve it after he contacted John. Placing his bag on the passenger seat, he pulled out the cell phone that utilized Ali Hasan's mesh network. 

Reese answered on the first ring, evidence of his concerns regarding Harold's late night activities. _"Any trouble?"_ he rasped, a low growl almost lost in the background chatter of other voices and noise, which led Finch to suspect he was back at the precinct.

A startled grunt, followed almost immediately by a half-muttered curse and the now distinctive thud of a fist connecting with what was likely a jawbone filled the earpiece. Harold shook his head. Some things never changed. "None. It sounds like you have your hands full, however."

 _"I'm adding resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer to this perp's charges."_ The satisfaction in John's voice morphed to a low groan of frustration. _"More paperwork."_

"Despite F. Willard Lancaster's prediction of nearly thirty years ago, I fear a paperless society continues to elude us," Harold responded dryly. "In Mr. Grossman's case that works to his advantage, however. I have the files."

 _"Well done."_ John's congratulatory tone abruptly shifted to exasperation. _"Oh, for...Give me a second."_ Another thud, heavier than before, and the sound of metal dragged across concrete. _"Sit there and don't move."_

Envisioning the perpetrator slammed onto a chair, Reese glowering down at his victim, Harold admonished quietly, "Isn't the form for 'use of excessive force' several pages long, Detective?"

John's response was an irritated grunt. Harold heard him exchange a few words with Fusco about starting the paperwork on their suspect, then footsteps. The click of a closing door reduced the ambient sound level to almost nothing. 

_"You still there?"_

Harold smiled. "As always." His pleased expression faded. The alteration of what had been his standard assurance to John was another example of how cautious they had to be. 'Mr. Reese' was now a name only whispered in the dark of their subterranean lair. He wondered if John missed hearing it, as much as he missed saying it aloud. 

He shook off the morose thoughts. The Numbers came first. "The files are complete and detailed. There's enough here to put not only Mr. Connors away, but many of his connections as well. Are you certain the District Attorney will accept the documents? They weren't exactly obtained through legal channels."

_"It'll be enough to keep Grossman out of Rikers, for a start. The DA will listen, especially if I can get Moreno to run point. I'll say they came from a confidential informant within Connors' organization. Gunrunning falls within the ATF's purview. The Feds'll be falling all over themselves to take the credit for a bust this size. If Grossman testifies to what he found, they'll probably offer him Witness Protection."_

"We save his life only to destroy it," Harold murmured sadly. "He will have to walk away from everything...everyone he knows."

_"He'll be alive. That's better than dead."_

"I suppose." Harold stared out into the rain, his own losses weighing on his soul. 

_"Are you sure you're all right? You said there was no trouble..."_

"There was none," Harold quickly reassured him. "I confirmed that Mr. Connors and his compatriots were occupied elsewhere before I made the arrangements to enter their offices. Other than one panicked part-time programmer, there was no one else there to observe my activities or prevent my search. For a man with secrets to hide, Mr. Connors' security is terribly lacking."

_"Our friend still got eyes on them?"_

Shaw was remotely monitoring the cameras they'd placed at Connors' home, while sitting a stakeout on his mob connections at their warehouses down by the docks. "She hasn't notified me otherwise."

_"Harold."_

John's concern for him was clear in the low rasp of his name. It hadn't escaped his partner that he hadn't answered his earlier question. "I'm fine, John. Just feeling a bit...maudlin tonight." A crack of lightning overhead lit up the sky and the clouds opened, releasing a heavy wash of rain that pounded against the windshield. "It must be the weather." 

He slid cold fingertips over the phone's screen, calling up the digital files he'd prepared and sending them to Detective Riley's precinct account through a masked ISP. "Check your email. How quickly can you secure Mr. Grossman's safety?"

 _"Moreno's already glaring daggers at me for dragging her back in here on a 'possible' development in the case. Once she's seen the evidence, things should move pretty fast."_ Reese's voice dropped in pitch, becoming softer, deeper, a hint of hope coloring his words. _"I might be able to get away for a food run to Ernie's at some point."_

Harold was sorely tempted by John's subtle invitation. While he had no love for the small diner Reese had suggested--the menu featured grease and more grease, their tea was colored water, and the customer base, at any given time of day, was populated with more uniformed police officers than he felt comfortable lingering among--the restaurant's counter-seating offered the opportunity for two 'strangers' to sit side by side with no questions asked. And it _was_ close to the 8th, which would minimize Reese's return time to the precinct and their Number. 

It would a brief, but welcome point of contact. Between working their current Number and the need to maintain their cover identities, he hadn't seen his partner in days, their interaction restricted to text messages, and terse phone calls. 

The sense of longing and loss he'd felt earlier for the Library, and life before Samaritan flared. He had lived so many years in the shadows, guarding his secrets. Finding John, growing to love him, letting him inside his barriers had been a risk, and had, despite his better judgment, sparked a hope for a future.

Now he was back to living in the shadows, deeper in their depths, alone more often than not, despite what lay between them. 

A jagged lightning bolt split the sky; booming thunder and a fresh heavy cascade of water jarring Harold from his thoughts. He shook his head sharply, silently berating himself for succumbing to a bout of self-pity. It wasn't like him. He'd made a decision to return to the battle, cognizant of the personal sacrifices it would entail. The present was the reality he had chosen to deal with. 

Lightning flashed again and static crackled across the phone line, prompting a nagging concern about the safety of their covert network. The old VHF television antennas and routers were vulnerable in this type of storm. He needed to conclude this call quickly and contact Miss Shaw to let her know she could quit her stakeout.

"Unfortunately, I'll have to decline. Professor Whistler's calendar is filled for the day," he answered regretfully. "Beginning with a 7:00 AM mandatory staff meeting, followed by office hours, and several more hours of departmental bureaucracy."

 _"Tonight, then,"_ Reese said firmly. _"I'll bring dinner. Any preferences?"_

 _'Caramelle di Robiola with Black Truffle Butter from Del Poso, Wild striped bass with Fiji shrimp from Le Berardin,'_ Harold thought wistfully, recalling some of the meals and restaurants they had enjoyed prior to Samaritan turning their world on its head. Neither was an option, not on their current budget, and not in their current identities. 

"Whatever suits your pleasure, John. I'll contact Sameen. I'm sure she's eager to get out of this weather. Good luck."

He ended the call and slid the keys into the ignition, cranking it to life to to warm the car. The cold air blasting out of the vents made him shudder and reminded him he was going to retrieve his coat. As he reached down to pull the lever to unlock the trunk, the sky lit up overhead--

\--and the driver's side window exploded inward.

*********


	2. Chapter 2

*********

John Reese was a man of few words. Detective Riley shared that trait. 

"No."

"We need the identity of your CI," the ATF agent growled. Pushing fifty-something, with a florid complexion and a paunch that suggested more time behind a desk than active fieldwork, the man swept his hand in a sharp, irritated gesture, ruffling the printouts that littered the small conference room table. "This so-called _evidence_ is worthless without collaborating testimony."

"No," John repeated for the twelfth time, shifting his stance to lean one shoulder against the wall. 

The Assistant District Attorney shot him a frigid smile, trying persuasion instead of her initial hard-assed approach. "But surely, you understand--" 

"No," he said, his flat denial derailing her abruptly. 

The ATF agent opened his mouth to object, but Moreno cut in. 

"In this department, Confidential Informants are just that," John's captain snapped. "Confidential." Moreno nodded toward the printouts. "We work with what we have. Let's move on. Marshall Cooper, here's our situation..." 

John crossed his arms across his chest so he wouldn't be tempted to draw his weapon and make his position terminally clear, while his captain brought the newest arrival from the Marshall's office up to speed. 

To her credit, Moreno had only asked once about his 'supposed' CI's identity when Reese had presented the damning evidence Finch had gathered, more a formality than anything else. After a five minute review, she had ordered Grossman removed from general Holding, and had placed the bewildered accountant in a small interrogation room guarded by a uniformed officer. While waiting for representatives from the DA's office, the ATF, and the Marshall's Service to arrive, she had alternated between peppering John with questions, and berating him for violating procedure when he admitted to having 'visited' Connors' warehouse to determine the validity of the weapons being on-site. 

The Assistant District Attorney had been less than enthusiastic when she had arrived, fat raindrops sluicing off her trench coat to puddle on the floor, long hair jammed in a bun at the back of her head, little makeup, and the spark of promised retribution in her eyes for having been hauled out of bed. 

That spark had shifted to a hungry gleam when Moreno walked her through the evidence. Reese had suspected her change of attitude was more a matter of having the opportunity to further her own career with a high profile case, than concern about an innocent man being framed for a crime he hadn't committed--a supposition that was confirmed when she repeatedly returned to the issue of his informant's identity and trustworthiness, instead of focusing on keeping Grossman safe. She wanted all the 'i's dotted and 't's' crossed before accepting the proof in front of her. A witness willing to take the stand would all but guarantee a conviction, and remove any question of 'tainted' evidence. 

Reese had answered 'No' six times to her demands.

The ATF agent had had his own agenda, practically salivating when he learned the identity of the mob family Connors was doing business with. He'd been arrogantly disdainful when he'd marched into the room, over-inflated ego on display. He had tried to pull a fast one and take over the case completely, citing Federal jurisdiction. 

Reese had remained silent, barring his one word denials, while the bureaucratic red tape wound tighter and the departmental posturing between the ADA and the ATF agent grew more vicious. The dark thought had rolled through his mind that at least with the CIA, he'd been spared this type of stupidity. 

If he hadn't already been on thin ice with Moreno, he would have stalked out and let them hash it out on their own. But he was trying to color within the lines, partly in grudging deference to Fusco's admonishments about respecting the 'job', and because their Number's safety still hung in the balance.

John answered the angry glower the ATF agent sent his way with a smirk, and let a part of his mind dwell on more pleasant thoughts.

He'd been glared at before. 

Harold was a master at it. Especially the look that Reese had initially interpreted as annoyance and wonder as to how Finch could have _possibly_ hired such a stubborn and reckless employee. Like so many of Harold's expressions, it had taken John some time to see beyond the prickly facade to the real emotions prompting that look. 

Concern. Caring. And ultimately, love. 

Finch still gave him that glare occasionally, along with more intimate expressions he shared with no one else: the hungry gaze when John disrobed before him; the soft welcome smile that lit him up from the inside-out as they slid together under cool sheets; rapture and wonder at the peak of climax; the mischievous lifted eyebrow when he tongued John's spent cock. 

There had been too few of those looks lately. Their new subway headquarters, while promising, offered few amenities, particularly for romantic interludes. John had plans to change that, specifically plans for the room they'd been clearing just off the main chamber; space just large enough for a double bed and a nightstand for Harold's glasses and the glass of water he liked to have within reach during the night. Maybe even a small bookcase, although since fleeing the Library, Harold's enchantment with books of all kinds had been replaced with a noticeable reluctance to pick up any volume that didn't deal directly with his double life as a professor, or lead them to deciphering the Machine's codes for a new Number. 

Something else John intended to find a way to change. They'd lost so much, but they _could_ have lost each other. The moments they did have together now were all the more precious, knowing they might not have survived the purge. 

The mesh network cell in his inner coat pocket vibrated, pulling John out of those memories. He casually slid the phone free. It was an incoming call from Shaw. He glanced up to find himself the focus of Moreno's annoyed stare. Silencing the phone, he slid it back into this pocket. 

A minute later it vibrated again. 

With the sinking feeling he'd experienced far too often when ops had suddenly gone south, Reese straightened, checking the phone once more. Shaw, again. He caught Moreno's eye, then let his gaze flick between her, the printouts on the table, and his phone. Her eyes widened a fraction, then narrowed. Her head jerked in a quick movement toward the door. Grateful that she was quick on the uptake, John exited the room, ignoring the startled objections of the ATF agent and the ADA.

As soon as the door closed behind him, he answered Shaw's call. 

_"Took you long enough."_

Shaw's voice held its normal level of irritation. John's level of concern eased down a notch.

"I'm in the middle of something," he growled back. 

_"So am I. A monsoon. How much longer do I need to sit on these chumps?"_

The sinking feeling returned with a vengeance. John's gaze shifted to the clock on the hallway wall, and he eased into a quiet alcove. "He didn't call you?"

_"Harold? No. I haven't talked to him since I gave him the 'all clear' to head to Connors' office."_

"Our 'friends' still tucked in for the night?" Reese asked, tapping his earpiece to hold onto her call while sending an urgent text to Harold's phone. 

A crackle of static filled the line before she answered. _"Connors has been in bed for hours and there's been no movement here. What's going on? Did Harold get what we need?"_

"He sent it to me forty minutes ago." Reese stared at the cell's screen. No response from Finch. "Hold on." He tabbed the speed dial to call Harold, tension and unease growing as it rang without an answer. Then he dialed the backup system Finch had set up for emergencies. There was no new message. "He's not answering his phone," he reported back to Shaw. "And there's nothing on the emergency line."

Static distorted the line again, almost obscuring the sound of a car engine roaring to life. _"Communication problems could be the storm, playing havoc with reception. It's a mess out here."_

It was a possibility. Their call wasn't exactly clear. The electrical discharge in the storm sitting overhead could be the problem. They could have lost one or more of the rooftop nodes, creating gaps in the network. Still, given their perilous situation, it wasn't like Finch to miss making a scheduled contact. 

"Something's not right," he murmured. 

_"I'll head downstairs. If there's no sign of him, I'll start a trace on his cell."_

He glanced at the conference room door, torn. Duty was a bitter pill when the life of someone you loved was possibly on the line. But he knew what Harold would want. The 'mission' had to come first. John couldn't leave until he'd assured the safety of their Number. 

"All right. I'll wrap things up here as fast as I can. Call me when you get there." 

He pivoted and strode down the hallway toward the squad room, relieved to see Fusco at his desk, the suspect they'd hauled in earlier apparently already delivered to booking. 

"Thanks for leaving me with the paperwork, partner," Fusco groused, hardly bothering to look up from the reports in front of him.

Reese ignored the sarcasm, digging a fresh clip for his Sig-Sauer out of a desk drawer along with a second gun. "How's your speed reading, Lionel?" he rasped, snatching up a second copy of the case folder and evidence files he had given Moreno, and dropping it on the other detective's desk.

Fusco's annoyed expression quickly shifted to wary curiosity. "What, you on another case I don't know about?"

Slipping into his long black coat, John placing the second gun and the extra ammunition into an inner pocket. He nodded toward the case folder. "I need you up on those files. You're going to take over for me with Moreno and her...guests."

"Sure. Throw me to the wolves." Lionel muttered, already paging through the report. "Mark Connors. Isn't he the guy that brought charges against that accountant you've been keeping tabs on?"

"Connors is the one with the skeletons in his closet," John responded, leaning close to the other detective. "Grossman is innocent. Your job is to keep them focused on guaranteeing that he stays alive and gets into Witness Protection."

Fusco grimaced, but rose to his feet, following Reese back to the conference room. "What are you going be doing while I'm bluffing my way through this?" he asked as they halted in front of the door.

"Tracking down my _other_ partner." 

Fusco eyed him worriedly as he slid his reading glasses off and pocketed them. "Trouble?"

"Not sure yet."

Lionel's mouth twisted into a frown. "All right. I got this. You stay in touch."

Reese nodded and shoved open the conference room door, the still quarreling occupants falling silent at his abrupt entrance.

"I need to follow up a new development on a case," he said, holding Moreno's disapproving stare, hoping she'd read between the lines and back him. "Detective Fusco's familiar with the details of the investigation into Connors' activities," he lied smoothly. John's gaze hardened as he focused on the gaping ADA and red-faced ATF agent. "With the _exception_ of knowing the identify of my informant."

John glanced back at his captain. She eyed him intently for a long moment, then gave him an almost imperceptible nod. Reese leaned forward, planting his fists on the table. "You've got ten minutes to ask me anything else you need to know and to come up with a plan to protect the witness we do have in custody. Clock's ticking."

 

****************


	3. Chapter 3

****************

__

> _\--cold--_

He curled into himself; pain burned up his spine to pound in his skull. 

A roar overhead snapped his eyes open. The world lit up in a flare of brilliance and cracked in a burst of sound that pounded against his ears. The light disappeared as abruptly as it had appeared, leaving a strobing afterimage of red-tinged outlines and jagged bursts of memory. 

__

> _...glass shattering inward...a rain of glittering shards slicing his skin...gusts of wind and rain...hands...grabbing at him...pulling him...suspended...weightless...slamming down against something hard...rough..._

He raised a shaky hand to touch the left side of his face, hissed and flinched at the throbbing, burning scrapes under raw fingertips. The movement sparked a shaft of pain from his hip; a strident stab in his side; a drumroll that battered the inside of his head.

__

> _\--coldwet--_

He blinked, tried to focus, but everything was a Vaseline-smear of blurred shapes and shadows. He closed his eyes again, drew in a breath. Held it. Let it out slowly. Did it again. And again. 

His pulse slowed; the throbbing in his head lessened.

Teeth clenched, Harold opened his eyes, slowly registering his surroundings.

He'd been attacked. Pulled from his car. There'd been a flash of something...a knife? The sharp ache in side...he'd been kicked...and searched...stripped of anything of value...hit on back of the head when he'd tried to get to his feet...left lying...

In the street. Rolled into the gutter. 

__

> _\--coldwetcold--_

He shivered, touched his glasses, felt the cracks spidering the left lens. Stared through them at the curb, the sidewalk. Felt the sturdiness of brick behind his back. 

He'd gotten himself out of the street somehow, tucked up against the side of the building out of the worst of the rain. 

His assailants...

Hadn't stopped him. They were long gone. They'd taken the car. Everything he'd had with him.

There had been two of them, but that was all he could remember.

A hard shudder wracked him. 

He blinked again, suddenly conscious of the sodden weight of his drenched clothing, the numbness in his hands and feet, the cold assault of rain bouncing off the sidewalk, striking his skin, the shivers rattling him. He fumbled for the zipper pull on the jacket, wincing at the stinging pain in his right hand. 

He stared at the long, ugly slash across his palm, gaping and welling fresh blood, trying to make sense of it. 

He'd been cut like that before. 

__

> _A face--beautiful and yet menacing._

Root. She'd kidnapped him...threatened to kill people if he tried to get away. 

__

> _...sorrowful eyes, heartbreaking..._

The same woman, but not the same. Things were different now...she was a colleague...a friend?

He squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing hard. He needed to stay focused, not get lost in the past.

He needed to move. 

Ignoring the pain in his hand, he flattened his palms on the rough pavement under him and started to shift to his hands and knees. 

The world turned sideways as soon as he moved away from the support of the wall. Pain erupted in his head and neck. He choked on the bile rising in his throat as his vision, already blurry, went to black punctuated by starbursts of white. 

He gasped for breath, eyes screwed tightly shut. He clenched his teeth, stayed perfectly still. When it no longer felt like his brain was sloshing around inside his skull, he slowly opened his eyes. 

The pain was manageable as long as he didn't move. Which presented a major problem, since he _had_ to move. 

He dragged in a careful breath, exhaled slowly through his mouth. He'd dealt with pain like this before. After the ferry bombing. Fear of discovery had gotten him off a cot and to his feet then--the danger of falling victim to another predator in his vulnerable state was no less now.

With a grunt, he rolled to his hands and knees, dislodging shards of glass from the shattered car window, which still clung to his jacket and trousers. The movement jarred the fragile balance he had over his roiling stomach. His vision grayed out at the edges as he spewed vomit onto the sidewalk. 

He clutched at the brick wall until the pounding in his head receded. It took an eternity to push/pull himself upright, but finally, he was standing. 

He tried to turn his head and was rewarded with a fresh blast of pain that almost sent him to his knees again. He reached back gingerly to touch his neck, felt something warm, sticky. He pulled his hand back and stared at the dark stain on his fingertips.

__

> _\--coldwetcoldbloodcold--_

The world blurred, and he felt like he was floating, split in two, part of his mind fixated on the blood on this fingers, another part methodically cataloging symptoms--confusion, nausea, vision problems, headache--concussion. 

He'd gotten hit on the back of the head. His brain had been bounced around inside his skull. 

__

> _But getting hit with a vase shouldn't--_

No. Not a vase. That was in the past. A Number had turned on them.

__

> _...Kohl...Kruger...Collier? Not Collier. Collier was--_

He dug cold fingertips into the crevices of the building's brick facade, trying to physically anchor himself, hardly feeling the sharp edges that sliced into his skin. 

_Present. Stay in the present!_

He wrenched control back again. Breathed. 

He needed to get off the street. 

Get to safe ground.

Get somewhere where he could access a phone and call for help.

Injured and without transportation, the prospect of reaching the closest secure entrance to their new headquarters was daunting. And if he looked as grim as he suspected he did, his appearance on one of the more crowded avenues would raise questions and garner attention he could ill afford. Any 'Good' Samaritan he encountered could be as much of a threat as the AI hunting them. Being hauled in by the police, or hospitalized...he couldn't risk it.

He wanted more than anything to reach out to John, hear his voice, have his partner gather him in and get him to safety. But caution warred with need. It was unlikely that whoever had attacked him could access _his_ phone, given the security he had added, but the last active number on his cell would have been John's. Since whoever had attacked him hadn't killed him or taken him prisoner, it lessened the likelihood that the worst of their enemies were behind it, but calling Reese's cell directly could potentially compromise their entire network. Again, a risk he wasn't willing to take yet.

They had a protocol in place for this type of situation. Their emergency number. It was programmed to send a message to his computers in the subway. If it wasn't answered there, an alert would forward to all their cell phones. A message would reach John and Sameen. 

Help would come. But he was going to have to take the first steps toward it. 

He twisted gingerly to his right, squinting through blurred glasses and the pounding rain.

Midtown... There were public phone booths on many of its streets, places where he had picked up messages from the Machine. Those phones were equipped to take a credit card as well as cash. Surely he could remember...

He tried to ignore the headache threatening to split his skull. Strings of numbers floated through his mind, mixed with fragmented bits of computer code. 

The code...

__

> _...was enticing...alluring..._

A shiver rippled through him, head to toe, shoving him back into reality. 

_Focus, damn it!_

A sixteen-digit string settled, white numbers against a gray background. He had it. 

He lurched into motion, limping unsteadily toward the intersection, catching his balance every few feet against the walls of the buildings to keep from falling. Near the corner he crossed the street, splashing through the growing puddles, footsteps faltering, knees threatening to buckle until he stumbled to a hard stop, throbbing head pressed against the glass windows of the corner building.

He struggled to breathe, to ignore the cold wind gusts and the rain and the world spinning around him. Gradually, the pain in his head started to recede again, but there was a fog bank of confusion encroaching on his mind that didn't want to dissipate. 

That frightened him more than the pain or the cold that was leeching his strength. 

_Shelter...safety...make contact..._

He closed his eyes, tried to picture a picture a map of the streets, but his mind filled with crisscrossed lines that wavered with the tremors coursing through him. 

__

> _\--coldwetcoldcoldcoldcold--_

_Just pick a direction. Move!_

He pushed away from the building, letting instinct guide his feet.

 

***********

It took closer to twenty minutes instead of ten before Reese escaped the precinct. The storm was starting to wind down, but rain still sheeted the parking lot, blown by fitful gusts of bitter-edged wind. John flipped up the collar of his coat against the cold and made a dash for an unmarked cruiser, splashing through lake-like puddles. Sliding behind the wheel, he checked his phone, but there were no new calls, messages or alerts. He tried Harold's number again, hanging up after the fifth unanswered ring. 

"Damn it, Harold. Where are you?" he murmured.

In the early years of their partnership, it hadn't been unusual for Finch to drop out of contact, pop up in an unexpected location, or disappear for hours to run a few unexplained errands. Even after they'd become lovers, Harold's private nature had continued to assert itself, but the barriers had dropped slowly, intimacy forging a more personal, mutually dependent relationship. Finch would never be an open book, but he had backed off significantly on his secretive behavior.

Torn apart when Samaritan had come on line, they'd come back together stronger, committed to not just their battle, but to each other. 

Dropping off the radar without warning wasn't in the cards anymore. 

John shoved the key into the ignition and started the car, flipping on lights and wipers even as he shifted into gear and steered out of the lot. Pulling up to the red light at the first intersection, he tapped the wheel in frustration. No call from Shaw meant she hadn't reached their subway haven yet, but he couldn't sit on the worry churning his gut any longer. He stomped on the accelerator and took a hard right, headed toward the last point of contact he'd had with his partner. 

**********************


	4. Chapter 4

**********************

Shaw hurried down the last flight of stairs, the darkness that greeted her curtailing the hope that she would find Finch below. She flipped the switch to bring the overhead lights up and saw Bear standing on alert inside the lower gate. Pausing just long enough to drag a caress across the Malinois' head, she moved quickly into the main room. She peeled off her wet coat, tossing it to hook on the coat rack, water droplets spraying in a wide arc. Bear stuck close to her heels, an anxious shadow as she crossed to the subway car and settled in the chair in front of the raised glowing screens. 

Her fingers flicked across the keyboard, calling up programs, cursing softly when the tracking protocol seemed slow to respond. With a teammate MIA, time was not something they could afford to waste. It had taken longer than she'd expected to reach their headquarters. The city's storm sewers were straining to handle the torrential downpour, leaving many intersections nearly impassible and underpasses flooded. 

Bear nudged at her, a low whine indicating he was aware something was amiss. She rubbed his ear and opened a phone link to Reese from the main console. 

He picked up immediately. _"Anything?"_

There was an undercurrent of hope in his voice that she regretted having to douse with bad news. 

"No. Just Bear, looking lonely. Computers in the car are up like normal, but the one at Harold's desk is dark and there's no sign of his laptop. There's a suit coat, vest and tie draped over his chair. Finch hasn't been back here."

_"What about the trace on his phone?"_

"It's running. Where are you?"

_"Not far from Connors' office."_ His rasp was low and harsh over the growl of an engine and the steady swish of wiper blades. _"Fusco's handling point with our Number. Any alerts from the emergency line?"_

"Nothing in the system yet," she reported, studying the monitors. "I've got warnings indicating intermittent gaps in the cell coverage area, though. Looks like at least one of the routers for the mesh network might have gotten nailed in the storm."

She stared grimly at the screen showing the progress of the tracking program. It was still searching. "Reese I'm not getting anything on his phone's GPS. The SIM card's either damaged, or it's been pulled." 

_"Check the history."_

She pulled up the call log for Harold's phone. "The last call listed is the one he made to you. Would Finch have disabled his phone intentionally?"

_"He would have, if he thought he was compromised in some way."_

Going silent and invisible made sense if Finch had twigged to something suspicious enough to trigger evasive action. 

"Could we have missed some of Connor's Irish friends? Maybe they had eyes on his office...targeted Finch after he got off the phone with you."

_"It's possible, but Harold had the documentation in his hands. He would have given me a head's up if he'd discovered we had overlooked someone."_

"Then what could have spooked him?" 

_"You know the answer to that as well as I do, Shaw."_

And she did. She hit a few more keys, opening a new window to track Reese's phone, and scrolled down a list of other programs looking for a way into the city's CCTV feeds. "I'll see if I can get into any cameras in the area. And I'll try to reach Root. Maybe she knows something."

_"Root or the Machine?"_

"Either. Both. If Samaritan's breathing down Harold's neck, the Machine should be screaming in Root's ear."

*************

John cruised slowly past the front of Connors' office building. Through the front glass doors he could see the security guard seated at his desk. No indication of trouble. He pressed lightly on the gas pedal, picking up a little speed heading toward the cross street. The main thoroughfare was a 'no parking' zone. 

_"Take a left, Reese,"_ Shaw advised him. _"You're almost on top of his phone's last coordinates."_

He braked at the intersection, scanning both directions, before turning onto the darker side street. On the pavement up ahead, something glinted and sparkled in the wash of the car's headlights. He pulled the car to the curb and climbed out, grabbing a high beam flashlight from under the seat. 

Pulling his long coat around him against the cold and the rain that had finally lessened to an annoying drizzle, he crouched next to the glass scattered on the pavement, picking up a piece to examine it. There was too much of it to be from a bottle, and it wasn't the squared, regular shape of safety glass from a windshield. 

"No sign of Harold, or the car he was driving," he reported to Shaw. "There's broken glass in the street...looks like a shattered driver's or passenger side window." He directed the beam of the flashlight across the pavement. "No other debris, just the glass. Any luck tapping into the city's camera feeds yet?" he asked, glancing toward the intersection.

_"It's slow going. I'm trying not to draw attention we don't want."_

John rose to his feet, pivoting slowly, scanning his surroundings. Deserted. Dark. While a natural spot for Finch to have chosen to park, it was also a good place for an ambush. But it didn't quite have the stink of Samaritan's assets or Connors' Irish connections. Neither group was the type to leave evidence of _any_ kind behind.

Keeping Shaw linked in, he called Fusco, hoping to break him away from the mess at the station long enough to check on the suspicion that was nagging at him. Concern for their Number surfaced when the detective picked up on the first ring. 

"You're supposed to be keeping tabs on Grossman," John snarled.

_"Lay off already. He's fine. The Marshall's Service just took custody. I escorted them down to the garage and saw him off personally."_

"Good," John replied, relieved. Now he could concentrate on finding Finch. 

_"Any word on our 'four-eyed' friend?"_

"Working on it. I need you to check the call log. See if anyone reported trouble in Midtown. Specifically near east 62nd and Madison. Vandalism, a mugging...anything."

_"Give me a sec' to pull it up."_

Reese heard the rustle of papers and the tap of fingers on a keyboard. 

_"Just a friendly suggestion, partner. You might want to steer clear for a while."_

"Moreno's not happy with my disappearing act?"

_"I think it's safe to say your picture's going to be on her dart board for the next few weeks, along with mine, probably. Thanks to this case she's got her hands full with another invasion of Feds. FBI this time. A couple of 'em worked with Donnelly."_

Reese appreciated the warning. Agent Donnelly's pursuit of 'The Man in the Suit' had created complications John could have lived without, including a stint in Rikers, which had almost led to Finch weaponing-up and trying to break him out--a scenario that gave Reese nightmares--but he still felt a flicker of responsibility for the man's demise. The search had supposedly ended with Donnelly's death and when what was left of Mark Snow's suited corpse was discovered, but avoiding anyone who had been involved with the original manhunt was prudent. 

_"Nothing in the system for Midtown tonight,"_ Fusco reported. _"Robbery's got that area flagged though. There've been six carjackings in the last couple weeks. Suspects are two Caucasian males, late teens. Victims have been mostly business types, working late. Perps crash the driver's side window, drag the vic from the car and take their valuables, and the vehicle. Their last mark ended up in the hospital with head injuries and a couple knife wounds. Found him unconscious, rolled into the gutter._

Reese swept the beam of the flashlight across the pavement again. The heavy rains had pretty well washed the gutters clean, but in a crevice of broken concrete, pieces of glass sparkled in the light. He strode over to investigate, crouching to prod through the glass with gloved fingers and retrieve a jagged edged piece of white plastic. Flipping it over revealed what looked like the end of a nametag, with the letters 'HAR'.

Another sweep of light revealed a scatter of glass shards scattered on the sidewalk and more near the base of the building it fronted. 

There was a shallow niche there, partially protected from the rain by a wide window ledge above, where windblown debris had collected. Keen eyes picked out clues the downpour hadn't yet obliterated. The remains of a lightweight cardboard box, partially flattened, bearing evidence of shoe treads. More pieces of glass that appeared to match what he'd found in the street. A puddle of vomit. Rusty smears on the smooth areas of the stone facade. 

_"Reese."_ Shaw said urgently. _"Harold's cell just popped up on the tracker. Signal's stationary. South Bronx."_

"What's in the area?" 

_"Satellite view indicates residential...mostly old apartment buildings. Pretty run-down section of town."_

"His phone might be there, but I don't think he is," John murmured, fingering the broken piece of name tag. "You up for a road trip, Lionel?"

_"Guess it's as good a time as any to get out from under the Captain's evil eye."_

"Shaw's going to send you GPS coordinates on Harold's phone. I think he had a run-in with those carjackers. If they stayed to pattern, they took off with his car and anything he had with him. We need to find them."

_"And erase any trail that might lead back to 'Glasses'?"_

Reese grunted an affirmative and quickly composed a text. "Sending you a description and plate on the car. Get moving, Lionel."

_"What about--?"_

"I'll find him," John vowed, ending the call. "Shaw--"

_"Already sent. You sure about this?"_

The few pieces of tangible evidence he had, and his own instincts, were telling him that Harold had met misfortune, not mob treachery or Samaritan's deadly agents. 

"I've got vomit, maybe blood. I think Harold's hurt, but on the move." John strode out to the street and headed toward the intersection. 

_"Reese--"_

"I _know,_ " he cut her off, not wanting to think about what Fusco had said about the carjackers' last victim. "I'll **find** him. I just need a direction to start searching." 

Reese glanced up and down the street. Which way would Finch have gone?

Harold would try to contact them for help, but he would avoid the crowded streets to the east, where there were too many eyes watching, both human and electronic, especially if his injuries were obvious.

North...there was an entrance to the subway in that direction, but it would be a long haul on foot. Central Park lay to the west, the Garment District just south of Midtown, both offering places to hide, but fewer options to reach out to them. 

South and few blocks east...the Library. Reese considered it for a moment. It was where Finch _would_ have headed a few months earlier, but now...breaching its walls was too dangerous. John slid it to the bottom of the possibles list. 

So...other options. Finch knew this area like the back of his hand. He'd taken calls from the Machine on these--

John spun around and hurried toward his car. "I need a location on every public phone booth in the area, Shaw."

The line filled with tapping sounds, a different rhythm than Harold's when he was on the hunt, but reassuring all the same. 

_"Closest one to you is north of your position. 76th and 3rd. I'll send you the rest. Bear and I can be there in under fifteen minutes. We can split up the list."_

John hesitated. It was tempting. With more feet on the ground, they could cover a larger search area faster. But--. 

"Harold's resourceful. He'll try to make it back there. If he can't, he'll find a way to contact us. And if I'm right about him being separated from his phone, he'll use the emergency line. The alert will pop up on his system there first. Stay put for now, keep track of Fusco's progress, and see if you can get eyes on any of those phone booths. I'll do a drive-by. If I don't find him, we'll start a grid search." 

John slid behind the wheel, did a fast Y-turn, and took a sharp left at the intersection. He dialed up the sound on the squad car's scanner. If a cop stumbled across Harold, he'd hear the call, and intervene.

 

********************


	5. Chapter 5

********************

Breathing hard, head pounding, Harold clenched stiff fingers around the metal edge of the phone booth's frame, and locked his knees to stay upright. 

His stumbling journey had done little to warm him. He was shivering non-stop, forced to clench his teeth to keep them from chattering. The irritation and discomfort of soaked clothes chafing his skin was nothing in comparison to the sickening disorientation of the world swimming in and out of focus with each jarring step, and his rapidly muddling mind. 

He had lost count of how many blocks he'd traveled. He had stuck close to the buildings, not just to avoid discovery, but out of necessity. His sense of balance was skewed, the pavement under his feet rolling and pitching like the floor of a funhouse. 

He should be able to recall each step, but he couldn't. He'd blanked out several times, coming back to his senses tucked into a doorway, or leaning against a building, arms wrapped tightly around his body, shuddering from the cold. 

Worse, was that he couldn't swear to 'when' he had taken those steps. He'd been slipping in and out of memories: of ice cream cones in winter, of Numbers that were long since saved or lost, of Nathan, cold as death...

Standing in the rain outside a movie theater...

Realizing he'd been imagining his partner's warm hand at the small of his back had left a taste more bitter than bile in his mouth. 

Past and present were fading in and out, mixing together like some bizarre dream. 

The phone booth was solid reality, however, and fortunately intact and operational, unlike the first one he'd come across. Vandals had gotten to that one, slicing the handset cable. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to bring the string of numbers from his credit card to the forefront. His brain responded sluggishly, half-frozen like the rest of him. Fingers stiff and clumsy from the cold, he could barely feel the receiver when he lifted it, the buttons zooming in and out of focus, threatening to change positions even as pushed them. 

After a long series of clicks and beeps, the system finally registered his card number, and he choked out a gasp of relief when a dial tone finally buzzed in the earpiece. He reached for the keypad again, shakily entering the ten digits for their emergency number. 

He clung to the receiver, the thundering of his pulse competing with the ringing in his ears as the call went through. Finally, he heard a click...the recording device activating. 

"John...S-sameen...I--" The paranoia that had kept him alive for so many years kicked in. He was on an open line, in full view of the cameras at the nearby intersection. Exposed. He had to be careful. "I c-could use...your assist'nce."

He lifted a shaking hand to the keypad, nearly hitting the wrong buttons twice as he struggled to enter the booth's phone number as a locator, but finally it was done. Hopefully, it would be enough. He hung up the receiver and leaned heavily into the solid support of the booth, barely feeling the cold metal against chilled skin.

He closed his eyes, imagining the digitized message streaming through unending miles of fiber optic cable...twisting...sparkling....

__

> _...such vibrant colors...reds...greens..._

__

> _...blues..._

Like the blue of John's eyes...

__

> _so many shades...shifting with his emotions...the blue of a calm still lake...the deeper tones of a turbulent river...the midnight hues of contentment...warmth..._

__

> _\--coldwetcoldcoldcoldcold--_

Harold stared, bewildered, at the phone. Had it rung and he'd missed it? 

He'd faded out again. For how long? A few seconds? Minutes?

A cold gust of wind blasted him, cutting through his wet clothing like a knife. He could see his breath, a foggy pale cloud each time he exhaled. 

Gritting his teeth, he shoved himself away from the booth. He needed to keep moving, keep the affects of the cold at bay. Locate another phone and try again.

 

********************

Fusco had run silent up to the Bronx, the flashing blue and red bubble light on his unmarked cruiser the only warning as he flew through half-flooded intersections and dodged around slower traffic. 

He killed the warning lights when he was a mile away from the GPS coordinates and eased down to just over the posted speed limit, flicking off the wipers, which had become more of a nuisance than a necessity. A few minutes later he cruised past an old apartment building that had seen far better days. The windows were dark, with the exception of a faint glow from one of the front-facing units on the third floor. He was nearly on top of the signal. 

He turned at the next corner and pulled into an alleyway that ran behind the building. Slipping from the car, he pulled his service weapon, scanning the area warily. It was a dumping ground, filled with overflowing trash cans and the rusted remains of abandoned cars. Swapping his weapon for a small flashlight, Lionel carefully played the beam over the wreckage. A large tarp covered shape wedged in next to one of the broken-down vehicles caught his eye. 

He grabbed a handful of the heavy tarp and jerked. It slithered off, revealing a sleek black town car matching the description of the vehicle Reese had given him. He rested his hand on the hood. Still warm. The car was unlocked, driver's side window broken out, fragments of glass scattered over both front floorboards. A quick search revealed nothing in the vehicle except an empty liquor bottle, nestled among greasy food wrappers. He started to close the driver's door, hesitated, gaze straying toward the trunk. 

He'd had no word Reese had found Finch yet. There was no reason to believe the carjackers had escalated to murder, but he needed to be sure his partner wasn't on a wild goose chase. Grimly, he gave the trunk latch a pull, heard it pop open a few inches. He moved around to the back of the car, took a deep breath and raised the trunk lid. 

A set of jumper cables and an overcoat. No body, and thankfully no blood. He released a relieved sigh and lifted the coat. Fine wool, lining that felt like silk. He shone the beam of the flashlight on the inside of the collar. Upscale haberdashery tag. Something Finch would wear. He checked the pockets, but they were empty.

He closed the trunk quietly and tugged the tarp back over the town car. If he could, he'd keep it out of the official report. His phone buzzed as deposited the coat in the trunk of his own cruiser. 

_"You got anything, Fusco?"_

Shaw keeping tabs, probably tracking his phone. He shouldn't be surprised. "I found our friend's car. No real damage that I could see, outside of a broken window. Looks like our carjackers took it for joyride before dumping it."

_"What about his phone? You're practically on top of the signal."_

"It's not in the car. The only thing in the vehicle that might connect to 'Glasses' was an expensive overcoat in the trunk. What else am I looking for?"

_"Besides any personal affects, probably a laptop, and hard copies of the files Reese turned over to your captain on the Connors' case."_

Lionel pulled his service weapon and slid into the shadows of the apartment building, edging along the wall, gaze searching darkened upper windows. "Robbery's traced a couple items from prior attacks to local fences. I'll have to find the punks that 'jacked him, before they try to sell off what they took."

He hesitated at the corner of the building. The window on the third floor was still lit. He glanced back toward the covered town car. Would the perps have been stupid enough to abandon it close to where they'd gone to ground? Stranger things had happened. They'd pulled off half a dozen successful carjackings. Maybe they were feeling smug. Overconfidence, he could work with. 

"Give me a few minutes. I'm gonna check something out."

*******************

Focus split between the screen indicating Reese's position as he cruised the streets searching for any sign of Finch, and the one that showed Fusco rapidly closing in on the GPS coordinates for Harold's phone, Shaw nearly missed the alert that popped up on another monitor. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard as the system generated a transcription of the message.

********************

_"Reese, a call just came in on the emergency line. It was Finch. Minimal audio. Just our names, a request for assistance and a phone number."_

John hit the brakes and slid the car to the curb. "Location?"

His fingers drummed on the steering wheel impatiently. 'Come on, come on...'

_"Public phone...West 53rd and 6th, near the Museum of Modern Art."_

More than a dozen blocks south of where he was now. John cursed and spun the wheel hard, swinging away from the curb, tires spinning on the wet pavement. 

************


	6. Chapter 6

************

Sliding his phone into his pocket, Fusco headed inside the aging apartment building and up the staircase. On the third floor, he paused. The building was silent, the hallway faintly lit, a sliver of light visible under the ill-fitting door of an apartment part-way down the left hand side. That apartment would match with the one he'd seen lit from the street. 

Service weapon at the ready, he paced down the corridor, weighing his options. Assuming the apartment was where the carjackers had gone to ground, the odds were two against one--unless the punks had a couple buddies visiting he didn't know anything about. He wasn't 'officially' here, which meant no warrant, no legal grounds for entry. Of course that hadn't stopped him before, but he was trying to stay on the 'right' side of the line these days. 

"Ah, what the hell," he muttered. He took a step back and rammed his shoulder into the door. The cheap panel gave way like paper, and he had to scramble to retain his balance and keep his weapon up. Momentum carried him a few feet inside the apartment and put him face to face with its two occupants--two Caucasian males matching the age of the carjacking suspects. One was sprawled on a stained, battered couch, seemingly dead to the world. The other was on the floor near his feet, an expensive laptop and cell phone on the low coffee table in front of him. 

"NYPD. Don't move," Lionel ordered, locking gazes with the one on the floor who was gaping at him in stunned surprise. The young man twitched, as if preparing to rise to his feet. Lionel nailed him with a glare and pointed his weapon center mass. "I said, don't move," he growled. 

The punk subsided, voicing his objection. "Hey, man--"

"Don't 'Hey man', me. Hands behind your head. Slowly." As he complied, Lionel spared a glimpse at the second man who hadn't moved. "What's with your buddy?"

"He took some stuff. He's trippin'."

"Yeah, well, hope he's having a good time. Lockup's not a pretty place. You're under arrest." Weapon trained on the kid who was alert and talking, Lionel pulled out his handcuffs and gestured to the floor. "Down. On your belly. Now." 

He kept one eye on the drugged-out suspect while he handcuffed the other. Sliding his gun into his holster, he risked a quick glance around the apartment. He had an idea on how to pull this off--make a legitimate arrest, and keep Finch and Company out of it--but he needed to make sure the perps didn't leave the scene while he arranged it. The open door to the bathroom offered possibilities. He hauled the punk he'd cuffed to his feet and pushed him in that direction.

"What the fuck--"

"Shut your trap." He shoved the kid down on the broken tiled floor. The sink was an old fashioned one, with exposed pipes underneath. Using two zip ties he trussed the handcuffed kid to the pipes. The punk sputtered and flung obscenities at him, but he ignored him, hurrying back to the main room to check on the other perp. He hadn't moved. Lionel's luck was holding. Minutes later, he had the second carjacker secured next to the first. 

"This is police brutality, man," the first perp hissed.

Lionel crouched down just out of kicking range and pulled his weapon again, holding it with casual menace. "This ain't nothing kid. In fact, it's your lucky day. You got _me_ in your face instead of my partner. _He's_ not an understanding kind of guy. Shoots first. Doesn't bother with questions. Now me, I've got questions. How you answer 'em determines whether I give him a call." 

The punk glowered at him. Lionel shrugged and pulled out his cell. "I got him on speed dial."

The kid opened his mouth as if to spew some more curses. Then something changed in his eyes. "What do want to know?" he snarled sullenly.

"That car you jacked in Midtown. Where's the driver?"

"I don't know, man. We rolled him and left him."

"How bad was he hurt?"

The punk's gaze shifted away. Lionel moved faster than his bulk suggested he could, planting the muzzle of his gun in the kid's chest. "How bad?" he demanded. 

The perp's head snapped back, eyes wide, showing every trace of white possible. "He took a slice across the hand and..."

Lionel pressed the gun harder. "And?"

"I cracked him on the back of the head. That's it."

Lionel eased back. "That partner I mentioned? It's his friend you 'jacked. If he's hurt worse than you said, I'll be sending him back to visit." He rose to his feet and exited the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

Ignoring the muffled yelling from the corralled perp, he slid his gun into the holster and made a circuit of the main room. A fast search turned up a computer bag, a file folder full of papers dumped in a pile on the floor, Harold's wallet, an expensive watch he presumed belonged to Finch, and the keys to the town car. There was a small pile of jewelry on a card table as well as a stack of credit cards--stolen items from some of their other jobs, based on the varying names embossed on them. He gathered up the computer and phone from the coffee table and stuffed them in the bag along with the folder of papers, wallet, watch and keys, but left the rest laying in plain sight. Pulling the broken door into place, he stepped out into the hallway. It wouldn't hold, but it would keep the curious out for a few more minutes. 

*************

Reese screeched to a stop next to the public phone booth Shaw had traced the number to, but there was no sign of his partner. He scanned the area, but he couldn't see anything that would have prompted Harold to move on until he caught sight of the camera mounted on a bracket over the intersection. 

_"Is he there?"_ Shaw demanded.

"No." John shifted the car into gear and pulled around the corner, out of range of the CCTV camera. "The phone booth's within range of the surveillance on the intersection. I'm guessing that's why he didn't stay put."

_"You got there fast. He's got to be close."_

John scrubbed a hand across his mouth, trying not to think about worst case scenarios. Harold had made it this far. If he wasn't here now, whatever his injuries were, they weren't diminishing his ability to remain illusive. 

He called up the list of public phone booths Shaw had sent him, scowling at the options for those nearest his current location. There were still too many choices to narrow down which one Harold might try for next. Finch had headed south from the point of the attack, but he might not stay on that trajectory. 

"Anything from Fusco?"

_"He found Harold's car. You were right, it was 'jacked. The phone's GPS signal is within 500 feet. Fusco's checking it out now."_

"What about Root?"

_"Nothing yet. She might not even be in the City."_

"Cameras?"

_"I'm in the system, piggybacking on the Live Crime Center's feeds, so I'm seeing what they're seeing, but the areas they've been rotating through haven't been where we want to be looking."_

"Keep me in the loop."

_I'd be more use out there."_

"Give it fifteen more minutes. Harold might try the emergency line again and you'll be in position to pinpoint his location for me. If we wait for it to relay to one of our phones, we could miss him again. Pack a bag...medical supplies...whatever you think we might need. And grab something of Harold's. Bear might be able to follow his scent even with the rain washing away the trail."

**************

Harold stumbled and wavered. Tried to catch his breath. His head pounded and his legs felt like leaden weights. Each step was...

__

> _If you're going to work all night, you should try getting some exercise._

It was good advice and obviously he hadn't followed it, he mused blearily, because he didn't remember ever being this exhausted after walking a few blocks. 

But he _had_ been exercising. He walked Bear every day. He was out in the field more than he'd ever expected to be. He had put in five miles on the treadmill earlier. He'd been on it when...

__

> _
> 
> ...Nathan strolled in, looking as handsome as ever in his tux. Another awards dinner, another award.
> 
> "What was this one for?"
> 
> "Services to humanity. Look, I know our deal. I schmooze the Board. I cash the checks...you do the work. But, honestly, this is getting exhausting for me." Nathan tossed back the rest of his whiskey.
> 
> Harold winced at the stabbing pain in his side, but kept his feet moving on the treadmill. He didn't want to stop...couldn't afford to stop. "Exhausting for you? I'm the one out of breath." 
> 
> Nathan smirked. "You always said you were perfectly happy with the division of labor." 
> 
> He squinted at his friend through drizzle speckled glasses. "I did. I was." The lights flickered. His jacket was drenched. The moving belt under his feet stuttered. "There have been...setbacks...but I have to keep going... I can't stop now." 
> 
> Nathan shook his head. "We should have stopped. It was a mistake. We shouldn't have tried to play God."
> 
> "We built the Machine to save lives, Nathan. And it did...it has. We're saving people."
> 
> "Not 'we' Harold. You have a new partner now. I'm dead, remember?"
> 
> A salt-tanged breeze kissed his bruised face. The ferry was boarding. An explosion...sirens...
> 
> The treadmill lurched. He stumbled off, caught himself against a brick wall. Nathan...
> 
> Nathan was just a few feet away, still in his tux, leaning against a phone booth. "Time runs out for everyone, Harold. Don't you have a phone call to make? Someone to reach out to? Someone you trust?"
> 
> "John," he murmured.
> 
> Nathan plucked the receiver from its cradle, held it out toward him. "Emergency protocol, Harold. I know you have one, you always had all the bases covered." 
> 
> "Make contact...find shelter..."
> 
> "That's right. Call John, Harold. Do it now. Tell him where you are."
> 
> He stretched out his hand--
> 
> _

\--and reached for the phone's keypad, shaking like he was in the midst of a seizure, struggling to focus on each button and enter the right sequences. The pounding in his head intensified and bright spots speckled the dark edges of his mind. 

Teeth chattering, he tried to fill his lungs, but they felt as frozen as his fingers. 

"John..." he gasped as soon as the recording beep sounded. "I n-need...I'm..."

His thoughts blurred...

__

> _Tell him where you are._

A street sign... he needed...

Squinting, he twisted and looked up toward the traffic lights just a few yards away. 

A red light...

__

> _Glowing..._

__

> _Watching..._

__

> _Mesmerizing..._

__

> _Comforting..._

How many times had he looked up that same light...and known something was looking back? 

When he was teaching it...

They'd played 'hide and seek'...

__

> _Can you see me now?_

A hard, bone-racking shiver made him blink and squint at the red light. 

What was looking back? His Machine? His terrible and wonderful child?

Or something infinitely more dangerous?

Another spasm of shivers wracked him, stealing his breath. 

Tired. He was so tired. He just wanted to lay down somewhere. And he hurt...his neck...his head...

__

> _...the ferry...Nathan..._

He had to warn him...

__

> _You have a new partner now. I'm dead, remember?_

There was someone else...

__

> _...dark suit, tall and menacing...disheveled, furious, arm against his throat...bloody, wracked with pain and anguish...gentle smile, eyes warm and comforting...hands which could inflict so much damage holding him, stroking him, touching him with so much love..._

> _
> 
> Rooney... Riley... Reese...
> 
> _

John. 

He could rest in John's arms. Let his partner's strength carry the weight of the world for a while. John would put a hand on his elbow...

__

> _...guide him up the steps...settle him into his chair or onto the old battered couch...bring him a cup of tea...curl around him...read to him from one of his books..._

__

> _\--coldwettiredcoldcold--_

There was a phone in his hand. Had he been trying to call John? Arranging to meet him?

Bright lights--hurting his eyes...headlights...coming toward him...

__

> _
> 
> ...standing in an intersection
> 
> ...traffic buzzing around him
> 
> ...watching...
> 
> was she?
> 
> _

"I...s-seem to be...hav'in...compli...c-cation..." he gasped.

__

> _No problem, Harold._

He huffed out a sigh of relief. Of course...John would understand...would help...

A car flashed by, splashing a wave of water onto the sidewalk, over his shoes, his lower pants legs. 

__

> _\--coldwettiredwarmsafesafesafe--_

A tremor rippled through him, but it didn't seem to matter. A tiny corner of his mind screamed that it should matter, but it was much more pleasant to listen to the soft croon of John's voice in his ear, promising warmth and safety. 

__

> _Don't answer the phone again unless it's me._

"I w-won't," Harold whispered. "I'll...m-meet you...s'meplace...safe..."

He let the receiver drop and staggered away from the booth. 

 

****************


	7. Chapter 7

****************

Fusco hustled down the stairs and out to his cruiser. Popping the trunk on his unmarked unit, he tucked the bulging computer bag into a duffle that held a change of personal clothes, then pulled out his cell and dialed Shaw.

_"What the hell, Fusco! You said a **few** minutes--"_

"Hold your pantyhose. I got everything, including the perps. Do that thing you do with the phones and get tall dark and deadly on the line. There's stuff he's gonna want to hear, too."

Her response was an unintelligible grumble, but in a few seconds there was a click in his ear and Reese's raspy terse acknowledgement. 

"I grabbed everything that looked like it belonged to our friend. That should keep him clear of the gunrunning and robbery investigations."

 _"What'd they say about Harold?"_ Reese demanded.

"They admitted to the carjacking, or one of them did."

_"And?"_

"Said he took a slice on the hand." Lionel grimaced, less than eager to deliver the rest of the news. "And a blow to the head. They left him at the scene. That match with what you got?" 

A muttered curse was Reese's only response.

Shaw's voice was taut with tension when she answered. _"There was evidence Finch was probably injured. He's made one attempt at contact. At that point he was still in Midtown. Reese is searching that area now."_

Lionel shook his head in frustration. He was miles away from being able to add his help to the search effort. "I'll tie up the loose ends here. Do me a favor, so I can arrest these guys. An anonymous call, on this address, reporting suspicious behavior...loud voices...a fight. That'll give me probable cause to bust in...after the fact, but I can run with it. I'll get a unit to haul 'em in and I'll call you as soon as it's done. Glasses is still missing at that point, I can be wherever you need me."

 _"Your call's in the works, Lionel,_ " Shaw responded. _"We'll be in touch."_

 

****************

Shaw closed the connection to Fusco and rose to her feet. She reached for the emergency bag she'd assembled, shifting gears to stab at the keyboard instead when another alert flashed. 

"Reese, I've got incoming on the emergency line. Looks like there might be audio--"

_"Put it on speaker."_

****************

_"John...I n-need...I'm..."_

Reese's stomach clenched at the exhaustion bleeding through Harold's slurred speech. He closed his eyes, straining to listen for anything that might tell him where his partner was, but there was nothing in the long gaps of his broken, confusing monologue that gave John the clue he needed.

_"...m-meet you...s'meplace...safe..."_

His eyes popped open when Harold's voice faded out. "Is that it?" 

_"That's all. No number this time. Just dead air. I don't know if I can back-trace it."_

John slammed his fist against the steering wheel. Damn it, he couldn't lose him. Not now. He needed a direction. _Something..._

He could hear clothing rustling in the earpiece, Shaw whistling for Bear. _"Reese, I'm headed your way. We need to find Finch, fast."_

"Tell me something I _**don't**_ know, Shaw," he snarled.

_"Fusco found Harold's coat in the trunk of the car. He's been out there in the rain for hours now, and it's getting colder. Core body temperature drops fast in those conditions. Normally, the body self-regulates. Exposure to the cold, wet...the internal mechanisms start to shut down--"_

"Leading to mental confusion, slurred speech, loss of awareness and coordination." Reese finished grimly. "Hypothermia."

_"A head injury's going to compound the problem. If he loses consciousness--"_

A click and suddenly Root's voice filled the phone line, high-pitched and worried. _"Sameen. Where's Harold?"_

 _"Where the hell are you? I've been trying to reach you."_ Shaw snarled.

"He's missing," John cut in. "If the Machine's got any suggestions--"

_" **She** says he's in danger. Samaritan's listening. **She** can't give me a clear message. All I'm getting is a song from a British indie pop band. It's from an album called 'The Illusion of Safety'."_

Reese's mind raced as his gaze swept the street, eyes widening when he recognized the familiar landmarks that rose out of the gloom. He'd been so focused on searching the shadows for his partner, he'd failed to realize how close he was to--

He stomped on the gas. "He's headed to the Library."

 _"He wouldn't--"_ Shaw argued.

"You heard him, Shaw. He's hurt and confused. Instinct's prodding him toward the safest place he can go to ground." Reese retorted, voice grim as death. "Right into a possible trap if the building's still being watched."

_"Root, we could use some help."_

_"I can't get there in time. If Greer has assets staked out on surveillance, I might be able to do something remotely if you can get me into their system."_

_"Reese did you get that?"_

An affirmative grunt was John's only response as he raced toward his goal.

 

**********

Reese fought against the compulsion urging him to go in guns blazing, drawing upon patience and caution accrued through years of covert missions. He cut over to Madison, sliding into the traffic flow that was still relatively steady on that main artery, and risked a drive-by of the Library. 

To the casual observer, the building probably looked the same, but John's sharp eyes easily picked up evidence of the incursion they had barely escaped. The plastic sheeting over the second floor windows was shredded and torn, fluttering in the wind, revealing broken panes beneath. The construction scaffolding at street level was bent and mangled in numerous places. Several of the plywood panels bore only one level of graffiti, a sure indication they'd been replaced recently. 

There was no overt indication of surveillance, but the back of Reese's neck prickled in warning. A windowless panel van with a construction company magnetic sign attached to the driver's door was parked on the side street close to one end of the tunnel. 

He tapped his earpiece as he turned onto the next cross street, sliding the sedan into a shadow-drenched space in a small private parking lot. "Shaw."

_"Ten minutes out, max."_

He quickly gave her the tactical details. She knew him well enough to not bother telling him to wait for her. Then he was on the move again, watch cap pulled low on his head, gloved fingers screwing the suppressor on his Sig-Sauer as he worked his way back to the van.

He paused, sheltered by the corner of a building, studying the vehicle and the immediate surroundings. He was on the driver's side of the van. One door on that side. His quick glimpse earlier hadn't revealed whether the entry to the back portion of vehicle from the passenger side was a swinging or sliding door. He'd have to be prepared for either option. 

In the dim lighting it was hard to be sure, but he thought he could see several antennas mounted to the roof, more than a simple contractor's vehicle would harbor, consistent with the premise it was being used for surveillance. He glanced toward the Library, mentally placing the location of the camera's Harold had installed to keep an eye on the approaches. If they hadn't been destroyed when the Library was raided, Greer and Samaritan could be tapped into them. They'd have 'eyes and ears' on the tunnel and the door on the opposite side of the building, as well. 

His gaze returned to the van. Large enough for one or two assets, but not many more. Greer would probably rely less on manpower and more on gadgetry for this kind of stakeout. 

Take out the watchers, trash the electronics if he had to in order to buy time, and then John could go after his partner.

Samaritan's assets weren't lightweights. They were skilled and would shoot to kill. Reese wasn't going to let that stop him, but he needed to come out of the encounter as intact as possible so he could get Harold to safety. Assuming he was dealing with two men, it would be less risky to take them on one at a time.

So...two in the van, or one in the van and the other on the street maybe doing a foot patrol. Assuming Harold had made it this far and was already inside the building, one or both could have already gone in after him. The variables still suggested clearing the van first. 

Reese pulled back from the corner and jogged back to a pile of construction debris he'd skirted earlier. He grabbed a good-sized chunk of broken concrete and headed back to the van. 

Taking a lesson from the carjackers' playbook, he smashed the concrete chunk into the driver's side window, shattering it inward, already crouched low and moving around the front of the van by the time he heard a startled exclamation from within the vehicle. 

His mind registered only one voice. His attention was on the passenger side door as it swung outward toward him. That worked in his favor. When the distinctive shape of a gun poked just beyond the windowless door, John lunged forward, hitting the panel with his right shoulder, driving it closed, trapping the man's wrist and gun in the doorframe. 

The crunch and snap of bone was music to John's ears.

There was a howl of agony and the clatter of the weapon bouncing off the concrete--falling from what Reese hoped was a broken wrist. He was already in motion, pulling the door open, grabbing the man and yanking him out of the van. The asset tumbled to the pavement with a harsh grunt and a choked-off bellow of rage. His momentum rolled him several steps away.

John shoved backward, forcing the door shut and keeping his back against it in case there was another man inside. The asset he'd pulled from the van had already scrambled to his feet. He barreled forward, slamming into Reese and pinning him against the vehicle. John had height and reach on the man, but his opponent had more bulk. Close-in fighting would work against him. 

There was less pressure from the hand that wrapped around the left side of John's throat than there was from the right, confirming he'd done some damage there. Reese quickly took advantage of that weakness. He crossed his arms across his torso, then brought them up under his attacker's arms, flinging outward to break the chokehold, making sure some of the impact translated to the asset's right wrist. 

The man hissed and swore, but still countered with a left cross that John managed to mostly evade by jerking his chin up and to the side. He got clipped, but rolled with blow, while at the same time driving his left fist upward under the asset's right arm in a uppercut that caught the man underneath the jaw. 

Teeth clacked audibly, the asset's head snapping back. Reese swept out with his left leg. His attacker lurched sideways, arms flailing. Conscious of the potential danger at his back, John risked a step forward, striking hard and fast, the butt of his Sig slamming the man between the eyes. 

The asset grunted, reeled back, staggered, caught his balance and lunged again, fingers extended like stiff talons ready to gouge out Reese's eyes. John dropped under his attack and came up inside that deadly embrace, slashing with the outer edge of his hand to crush the man's trachea.

One strangled gasp, and the man went limp, his dead weight threatening to drag Reese to his knees. Breathing hard, John shoved him away and let him drop, then spun to check the van, Sig pointed at the still closed side door. He risked putting his ear to the panel, listening intently, but there were no sounds that suggested anyone else was inside. Using the door as a shield, he jerked it open, leading with his weapon. The van was empty of any other adversaries.

A fast search of the body of the man he'd taken down produced a cell phone, but no identification. Reese snatched up the fallen asset's weapon and his phone, and climbed into the van, pulling the door almost closed behind him.

A quick glance confirmed it was a listening post, set up for long-term surveillance, filled with equipment he'd seen and used when he'd been with the CIA, only much more sophisticated. Two chairs, crumpled wrappers from take-out sandwiches, and two cups of coffee--one nearly empty, one three-quarters full and still steaming--sat next to an open laptop. 

He'd taken out one asset, but there was another still in play. The image frozen on the monitor screen of the laptop grimly pinpointed the man's possible location. 

It was a still captured from a camera focused on the tunnel. There was just enough detail to make out the figure of a man moving toward the door that would lead into the Library. He was a shadow among other shadows, but John was sure it was Finch. 

The faintest screech of metal had John spinning, Sig-Sauer leveled, as the door to the van was yanked open. The business end of Shaw's gun preceded her scramble inside. Bear was a shadow-dappled statue on high alert just outside the vehicle. 

Shaw settled into one of the chairs and tapped her earpiece. "One target neutralized, Root." She glanced at Reese, obviously looking for confirmation on the second asset, but he shook his head. "Still have one to account for. I'm in the van," Shaw reported, scanning the monitors. "Lots of high-tech electronics. Looks like they've got cameras on both entrances, interiors and the surrounding streets...audio, too. I can't tell if they're recording or live streaming."

Root's voice was in Reese's ear as well. _"Get up on the guy's phone, and connect it to one of the computers."_

Reese slid the requested cell out of his coat pocket and handed it Shaw. She angled the laptop toward him as she followed Root's directions. 

_"Okay, I'm in. Let's see what these bad boys have been up to."_

Reese perched impatiently next to the van's open door, gaze shifting back and forth between the opening to the tunnel and the flickering monitors. Harold was inside--might already have been taken down by Samaritan's missing agent. John's instincts were screaming at him to move, but rushing in before they'd dealt with the surveillance that was in place could make the situation worse.

"Don't get fancy, Root." Shaw cautioned as the laptop screen filled with rapidly scrolling lines of code.

_"Don't worry, sweetie. The good news is that they're not feeding the surveillance live. The bad news is that they're set to automatically upload the last several hours of recordings in seven minutes."_

"We need more time. Can you stop it?" John growled. 

_"If I do, the system will flag a problem."_

"And we'll have an army of Samaritan's agents on top of us a few minutes after that," Reese muttered.

"Can you corrupt what they've already recorded?" Shaw asked. "Without making it obvious?"

_"Child's play, Sameen, but I'll need you there for a few more minutes. And in the meantime...active audio and visual feeds are looped, John."_

Shaw spared him a quick glance. "Go."

Reese scrambled out of the van, flashing a hand signal to the Malinois to follow. He bolted toward the tunnel and within moments was at the heavy metal fire door.

He hesitated. The door was ajar. 

John drew his Sig and tucked himself flat against the wall, Bear crouched in readiness at his side. He nudged the door with his foot, pushing it open about six inches, grimacing at the faint grind of the hinges. Finch had always kept those well oiled.

The stench of stagnant stale air, tinged with the odor of smoke, wet paper and charred wood wafted out of the dark, almost pitch black interior. The Malinois stiffened, sensitive nose wrinkling.

When nothing happened after a slow count of thirty, Reese gave the door another push with his foot. 

_pfft-clang!_

The deadly round fired from a silenced weapon struck the inside of the metal door at what would have been center mass had John taken a step forward into the opening, and ricocheted to impact the far wall of the tunnel. 

Instead of retreating, Reese shouldered the door open and threw himself through the doorway, aiming for the floor. He hit--vaguely noted the elaborate inner doors were gone--rolled, angled left, barely avoided getting nailed by another bullet that gouged the floor near his left hand. He scrambled through piles of moldering books, taking shelter crouched behind a wide round floor-to-ceiling pillar he located by memory. The rake of nails on the cracked marble floor and a gust of hot breath buffeting his cheek positioned Bear right beside him.

The air reeked of decay and misuse. The sour stench of urine and the bitter scent of charred paper and wood filled John's nostrils, reminding him of his time on the streets. It gave him hope that Samaritan's agent hadn't recognized Finch as a valued target, but had initially entered the Library as a routine follow-up on just another of the downtrodden homeless who had obviously been making the abandoned building their home. 

Whatever had put the man on the offensive was unimportant at this point. Reese needed to take him out quickly. Firing back blind wasn't an option. Harold was in the building, hopefully up on the second level, but if he wasn't...

John stared into the darkness, willing his night vision to adjust faster. Faint light filtered down from the upper floor, a pale echo of the lights of the City shining through the windows on that level, but the first floor was drenched in shadow. 

_Pfft. _Another silenced round tore a chunk off the side of the column, spraying sharp shards of stone and pulverized dust. Reese cursed silently. He'd missed the muzzle flash. He thought the shooter was near the old information desk in the center of the room, but he needed a better fix.__

The asset was a pro--he wasn't trying to call out his target with cheap taunts. He was patient, waiting for John to make a mistake, or waiting for backup. Reinforcements would turn the tide in the shooter's favor--not something Reese could allow to happen. Fortunately, John had an ally in the fight. 

He pulled Bear close. The Malinois was primed for action, muscles bunched, the hair down his spine bristling. _"Such. Aanvallen,"_ he whispered into the dog's ear. There was no need to specify who he wanted the military trained animal to seek and attack. Bear had his target. Reese released him to his hunt. The Malinois slunk silently into the dark. 

Bear would flush the shooter, but John needed to be in a position when that happened. _Pfft._ Chunks of stone flew again as another round hit the pillar. The shot had come from roughly the same direction. The shooter hadn't moved. Apparently he was confident his current position gave him an advantage. 

Reese had prowled every foot of the Library during the years they had used it as their headquarters. He called up his mental map. The old information desk lay between him and the stairs to the upper level. It was open space between where John was currently perched and the desk. There was another pillar thirty feet or so to Reese's right. If he could move to that spot, he'd be positioned to the side of the asset. A better angle for a shot of his own. 

His vision had improved to the point where he could pick out at least vague shapes. The floor was littered with piles of debris--broken furniture, mounds of soggy books, and heaps of items less identifiable. 

Reese scooted a few feet away from the pillar. Entangled in the shredded lengths of what had once been a set of drapes from one of the lower level reading rooms, was an empty liquor bottle. He pulled it free and returned to the shelter of the stone column. He set the bottle rolling across the floor to his left. 

The clatter/scrape of glass against the stone floor drew the shooter's aim. _Pfft Pfft_ \--the bottle shattered. John was already halfway to the second pillar. A round whizzed past him; the asset quickly correcting for his earlier mistake. Reese slid into the shelter of the pillar, easing around the column and bringing his gun up, ready to fire. 

The scrape of nails on marble signaled Bear's entry into the fray. A sudden panicked shout, the uneven shuffle of leather against stone, a reverberating growl, a cry of pain and increasingly frantic curses, pinpointed the shooter's position. 

Reese stepped out from the shelter of the pillar just as the asset rose into view behind the desk, rearing back, the Malinois' powerful jaws locked around his shooting arm. John took the man down with one shot, firing while he was closing the distance between them. Bear held onto his target as the asset fell heavily to the floor, on task until Reese gave the 'release' command. 

Murmuring praise to the dog, John crouched next to the shooter, sparing no regret for the man whose life he had just ended. He found a cell in the asset's pocket and quickly checked the call log. He tapped his earpiece. "Target down," he reported tersely. "He tried to reach someone, maybe his partner from the van, a few minutes ago." 

He rattled off the cell's number. Shaw immediately confirmed an inbound call to the other asset's cell during the timeframe in question. Reese huffed out a relieved breath. The lack of response was probably why he'd started shooting when John had entered the building. 

"No sign he was in contact with anyone else for the past several hours. We may have a caught a break."

 _"We're still clear here,"_ Shaw replied. _"Almost done sabotaging the feeds. Harold?"_

Reese pulled out a small flashlight and directed the beam toward the stairs. Wet shoe prints tracked upward through the remains of broken-spined classics. 

"Upstairs, I hope." 

Leaving Bear stationed at the foot of the staircase on watch, John took the steps two at a time, Sig ready to fire at the least provocation in case they'd misjudged the number of assets on surveillance. He drew in a sharp breath at the sight of the upper gate, twisted and bent, hanging off it's hinges. 

Reese traced the beam of the flashlight on the floor. 

A wet puddle. Shoe prints marking a zigzag path toward the inner room. 

"Finch!" he hissed. 

A faint rustling sound drew him forward. 

The destruction upstairs, in what had been their sanctuary, was even worse than below. It was as if those who had invaded were so incensed to find their quarry already gone, that they had taken out their rage on what was left. 

Their intent--obliteration. 

____The overhead lights dangled dizzily from the ceiling, skeletal wrought iron clutching fragments of shattered frosted glass._ _ _ _

____Free standing stacks which had once held carefully shelved books were toppled like Dominos, their contents reduced to ash and cinders._ _ _ _

____In what had been their workroom, the round table was spilled on it's side, broken in half. The glass board that had held their Number's pictures and relevant data was shattered, jagged shards twinkling like fallen stars strewn across the floor, the frame not just twisted, but ripped apart; file cabinets were dumped with drawers hanging like open gaping mouths screaming in shock, the rolling wooden ladder smashed to kindling._ _ _ _

____Broken remnants of chair legs were driven through wooden shelving; soggy stuffing lay in mountainous piles around what had been the long leather couch--the upholstery sliced and shredded down to it's inner wood and metal frame._ _ _ _

____The window where he had stood so often was shattered, gusts of wind and moisture blowing in. Nature adding to the devastation in her own peculiar way._ _ _ _

____More piles of charred books and papers littered the floor, a fragment of a face all that remained of a photo that had once graced Finch's wall of lost chances. The golden grated doors that had guarded Harold's prized first editions had been torn apart, the shelves broken and hanging from their brackets._ _ _ _

____"Harold!" he called out urgently. He had to find Finch, get him out of here._ _ _ _

____John edged around the tipped table and pulled up short. In the soft light of the City filtering in through the shredded plastic, the huddled figure of his partner sat in an awkward jumble of limbs on the floor, within a sea of broken glass, leaning against what was left of the overturned card catalog cabinet. He hugged a charred book to his chest with one hand, fingers of the other hand fumbling shards that might once have been a tea cup into a pile. His head tilted upward slowly, as far as his fused spine allowed._ _ _ _

____He stared at John, the whites of his eyes huge._ _ _ _

____"Q-quoth the R-Raven...N-nev'rmore," Finch croaked. Then he barked out a harsh sharp laugh, a sound that chilled Reese's soul._ _ _ _

____Glass crunching under foot, John holstered his pistol and quickly crossed the few feet of distance between them, dropping to his knees. He started to reach for his partner, but Harold clumsily batted his hand aside, seeming intent on protecting his fragile pile of glass._ _ _ _

____"Don't! 's broken." he growled. Finch's voice abruptly dropped to a whisper. "...the world...b-breaks ev'ryone...those that will not break it k-kills."_ _ _ _

____John ached to gather him in. Harold was a mess. Soaked to the skin, shivering. The left lens of his glasses was spidered with cracks. That side of his face was scraped and raw, bruises flowering from jawline to temple. A dark stain on his collar and the neck of his jacket was evidence of the head wound the carjackers had delivered._ _ _ _

____"s'all...gone. They...destroyed...evrythin'," Harold mumbled._ _ _ _

____Finch tilted his head to stare at John. His eyes were brimming with tears, some of which had tracked down his face. But there was a dazed dullness in those orbs which frightened Reese more than the realization that in all the time they'd been together, John had never seen him cry._ _ _ _

____"Why?" Asked with childlike innocence. "I d-don't...I don't unnerstan..."_ _ _ _

Reese touched the uninjured side of his partner's face. -- _God, his skin was like ice!_ \-- "Harold." 

____The confusion-filled eyes seemed to look right through him._ _ _ _

____"...h-hurts."_ _ _ _

____"I know. We'll get you fixed up."_ _ _ _

____"C-can't fix people. Tried." Finch pulled back, looked down at the book in his arm, let it tumble slowly to the floor. "'The w-world is s-senseless, knowledge... s-s-strangles.'"_ _ _ _

____His gaze started to drift away from Reese, head turning slowly. "'...the ob-obliteration of home and h-hearth...and waitin' in the last room, the Red Death...'"_ _ _ _

____"Finch." John cupped his face with both hands. "Stay with me," he urged._ _ _ _

____Harold leaned into his touch and shivered, eyes drifting to half-mast, a pleased murmur crooning from his throat. "Mmmm...finch...North Am-American s-song bird..." His face scrunched into a frown. "Can't...can't remmmember more...Dad...he would know...but...h-he's gone...lost..."_ _ _ _

____Harold drew in a hitching breath, his eyes opened, filled with pain and loss, and a glint of lucidity, the first sign of true recognition John had seen. "'I'm not lost for I k-know where I am. But...where I am...m-may be lost.'"_ _ _ _

____John leaned in and kissed him hard, desperate to keep that flame of awareness alive. "We survived. We're alive," he whispered fiercely as he pulled back. "That's all that matters."_ _ _ _

____Harold awkwardly patted John on the arm. "Safe," he whispered, tipping sideways into Reese's arms, eyes drifting shut. John pulled his limp body close._ _ _ _

____"Reese!"_ _ _ _

____"Here!" John reached back with his left arm and pushed the broken table aside. He caught a glimpse of Shaw standing just inside the ruin of the gate, as transfixed as he had been by the damage. Then she was striding toward them, face as expressionless as stone. He turned his attention back to the man in his arms, ignoring the glass slithering and crunching when she knelt next to them._ _ _ _

____Her fingers wrapped Finch's wrist at the pulse point, gaze scrutinizing him with clinical detachment. "Was he out when you found him?"_ _ _ _

____"Awake, but...confused."_ _ _ _

____She reached forward and slid Harold's glasses off, deftly manipulating one eyelid up at a time, penlight flaring. "Pupil reaction's slow...but they seem pretty even in size." She palmed the back of his head lying in the crook of John's arm. Reese could feel her fingers probing the area around the wound. "Can't feel anything to suggest a skull fracture, but only a CT scan or an MRI will rule that out."_ _ _ _

____"We can risk a hospital if we need to." John's mind was already constructing a fake police report that would create a plausible reason for his partner's traumatized state._ _ _ _

____Shaw pinched the skin on Harold's neck, causing a slight recoil and a flutter of eyelashes. "He's still responsive to stimuli. And he's still shivering, so his body's trying to compensate. We might have gotten lucky. We'll see. I brought glucose and saline. I can start IVs in the car. We need to get him out of these wet clothes. Wrap him in your coat. It's warm from your body heat. Put your watch cap on him, too. It's damp, but it'll keep his head warmer and protect that head wound until I can get a good look at it. The gash on his hand will keep for now."_ _ _ _

____They managed to strip Finch of his jacket and shirt, quickly but carefully manipulating stiff, shivering limbs. Removing his wet t-shirt proved more problematic. Shaw resolved the issue in her own classic way by leaning Harold forward into John's arms and slicing up the back of the sodden cotton undergarment with a knife._ _ _ _

____Peeling away the soaked fabric, she hesitated for the first time since she'd begun triaging her patient, gaze flicking up and down Finch's back and shoulders._ _ _ _

____"Shaw," John barked roughly. Harold's scars were a private thing, not for display, not for discussion._ _ _ _

____She flicked a cool glance his way, then quickly dispensed with the rest of the t-shirt._ _ _ _

____John slipped out of his heavy long coat and they wrapped it around Finch. Reese pulled off his knitted watch cap, slapping it across his knee to release as much moisture as he could before gently sliding it onto Harold's head. The older man's shivering increased, but he seemed to move closer to true consciousness, eyelashes fluttering more frequently. To John's surprise, Shaw resettled Harold into the crook of his arm, instead of immediately bringing him to his feet._ _ _ _

____"We need to move," he objected. 'We can't risk staying here much longer."_ _ _ _

____"We move him too fast, we risk overtaxing his heart. Bear's still on guard duty downstairs. Between him and Root we'll have plenty of warning if something stirs." She took John's hand and guided it inside the coat to rest palm down on Harold's chest. "Breathe with him. Get some warm air into his lungs. Steady exhales. Don't force it."_ _ _ _

____John leaned in and touched his lips to Harold's cold ones. As if recognizing his lover's touch, Harold's lips parted. Reese felt the puff of exhaled breath. He gathered in air through his nose, waiting until he felt Harold's chest start to rise before he exhaled slowly._ _ _ _

____It was more intimate than any act of sex, breathing together, offering life and warmth._ _ _ _

____John lost himself in the steady rise and fall of Harold's chest, the inhale and exhale of air, until Shaw's touch drew him back to reality. Feeling a little lightheaded, he dragged in a deep breath. Shaw eyed him critically._ _ _ _

____"Can you carry him?"_ _ _ _

____John nodded. Shaw took Harold's weight for a moment while Reese repositioned himself, offering her own strength and support as John gathered Harold in and lifted. Once he was settled in John's arms, she pulled her weapon and stalked toward the stairs._ _ _ _

____Harold was no lightweight, and John's arms and back were aching by the time they made it to the ground floor. Bear whined a concerned greeting and wound carefully around John's legs, muzzle raised to sniff inquiringly at Finch when Shaw released him from his sentry duty._ _ _ _

____Shaw tapped her earpiece. "Root. We clear?"_ _ _ _

_"According to their logs, these guys run like clockwork. Unless our eavesdroppers' replacements break pattern and arrive early, you should have another fifteen minutes. I'll control the feeds as long as I can."_

____Reese gathered Harold closer and waited inside the door to the tunnel while Shaw eased outside, Bear a silent deadly shadow at her heels. Less than a minute later, she pushed the door open and beckoned John forward._ _ _ _

____A non-descript sedan sat waiting in the dark, just outside the door. Between the two of them, they managed to get Harold lengthwise in the back seat, nestled up against John. Reese alternated between peering out the car's front and back windows, gripping his Sig-Sauer tightly._ _ _ _

_"Bear, Bewaken,"_ he called out to the dog, freeing Shaw up to tend to Harold. 

____Digging through a good-sized duffle, she pulled out a clear fluid filled bag, tubing and needles. Working only by the light of the small flashlight she held clenched between her teeth, she quickly inserted an IV port into the crook of Harold's left arm and set up the drip, sliding the bag inside John's suit jacket to warm the fluid._ _ _ _

____Shaw tucked a blanket over them, ordering Bear into the back seat. The Malinois settled between Harold's legs, adding his warmth. Reese felt Finch stir. John twined the fingers of their left hands together under the blanket. "Easy," he murmured._ _ _ _

____A hitch of breath, an exhale. "S-s-safe?"_ _ _ _

____"I've got you." Reese gently squeezed his fingers. He glanced up and caught Shaw's grim nod before she shut the rear door._ _ _ _

____Shivers continued to rattle Harold's frame as the engine roared to life and Shaw steered them toward safety._ _ _ _

____*************_ _ _ _


	8. Chapter 8

*************

Shaw stood next to the makeshift bed, doing a quick visual assessment of her patient. Finch lay quietly, breathing easily, the slight movements under his eyelids suggesting REM level sleep. His color was good. If it weren't for the IVs feeding into his arm and the spectacular bruising on the left side of his face, no one would suspect his close brush with death, twenty-four hours earlier. 

The two double air mattresses stacked on top of each other, supported by a platform of plywood and bricks, were a far cry from the comfort and sophistication they'd had available at their old safe houses, but it was a major improvement over the camp cot they'd laid Finch on when they'd initially gotten down below. How poorly they were equipped to deal with medical emergencies had been made painfully clear, as they'd scrambled to tend to him. 

The saline IV in the warm car, combined with Reese's soft, non-stop murmured prodding, had kept Harold from slipping any further away. They'd managed a controlled stumble down the long flights of stairs to their subway headquarters, Finch hanging awkwardly between their disparate heights, mumbling disjointed fragments of poetry and prose that stirred strange memories of long ago high-school English classes. 

Getting his core temperature up had been the most immediate challenge. Reese had efficiently stripped him of the last of his wet clothing, drying him off and maneuvering him into a pair of sweats he pulled from a bag of extra clothes he had left down below. Jury rigged space heaters had been positioned to circulate warm air under the cot. Cheap chemical hand warmers, snagged during a fast stop at a 24-hour convenience store on their route, were wrapped in cloth torn from shirts pulled from Reese's stash and placed at Finch's armpits, groin and abdomen, and under his feet.

Shaw had cleaned the gash at the back of his head, closed it with butterfly bandages, laid a gauze pad on top, and used a dry watch cap to hold it in place.They had tucked the single blanket they had around him, layering on their own coats to provide extra warmth. She'd rigged a second saline IV, and one of glucose, and dragged a chair next to him to assess pulse, heartbeat and monitor his respiration. The cut on his hand had been quickly irrigated, slathered with anti-biotic cream and bandaged with a few more butterfly strips and a length of self-adhering wrap. 

John had hovered, pacing restlessly, making the necessary calls to Fusco--who would retrieve Reese's cruiser and monitor the carjackers' story as they made their way through the justice system, _and_ continue to cover for Reese with their captain. Fielding Root's insistent demands for updates he had passed off to Shaw. Bear had prowled with the ex-op, frequently returning to Harold's side to nudge at him. 

Harold's disjointed mumbling had ceased as his body warmed. His color had improved, shifting slowly from translucent alabaster to a healthier pink, lips and nail beds losing their tinge of blue. Leery of letting him sleep, they had taken turns gently prodding him awake, offering tiny sips of warm tea as his coherence increased and the dazed look in his eyes faded. 

Assessing his mental condition in regard to the head injury had been tricky. Basic concussion assessment questions like _'What's your name? When and where were you born? What's your address?'_ weren't something Finch would have answered on his best day. 

Shaw had tried to be creative, but her questions had met a clouded wary gaze and stubborn silence until John had knelt at Harold's side. Harold's focus had locked onto him, wariness shifting to a weary hopeful uncertainty. Reese had unearthed Finch's hand from under the blanket and laid it against the side of his face. Recognition had sparked in those tired pale eyes and the tension had bled out of Harold's body. He had breathed out a sigh along with John's name, and his eyes had drifted shut. 

Over the next eight hours, they'd woken him every two. Each time, Harold's condition had shown improvement--eyes and speech clearer, and with a growing awareness of his surroundings. He'd answered her inquiries, although John's was the face he immediately sought out before speaking.

Once they'd passed that critical point, they had let him sleep for longer periods. Reese had disappeared during one of those, returning with two large duffel bags containing the inflatable air mattresses, blankets and pillows. He'd dropped them in one of the rooms just off the main chamber, an office space which they'd recently cleared, and had made a second quick trip, returning with a warm air vaporizer, bottled water--and food, thankfully. Reese had alternated between setting up the room, checking on Finch, and keeping a line of communication open with Fusco.

The Machine, as if aware its Admin needed its assets' attention, had sent them no new Numbers. A quick hack into the City's traffic cameras had found no trace of the surveillance van near the Library. Subsequent checks, however, had revealed the presence of several dark suited men, maintaining a watch on the building under the guise of a casual stroll or window shopping. 

The Library was officially "No Man's Land." It had given Shaw immense satisfaction to know their enemy was expending resources on watching an empty building that none of them would ever want to set foot in again. 

When they'd next woken Finch, they'd moved him to the room John had prepared for a more comfortable convalescence. Shifting even that short distance had taxed Harold's strength, and exacerbated his headache, but it had given her a chance to assess any physical issues that might suggest complications from the head injuries or the hypothermia. Outside of the stiffness to his movements, which she had expected, left and right gross motor skills had appeared equal, or as equal as they ever were. She'd carefully dosed him with two acetaminophen tablets, which he'd swallowed without a problem, and watched him drift off to sleep.

Shaw had moved the cot in next to the bed, taking short naps while Reese took the watch. 

She reached forward to tug the blanket covering Finch higher against his neck, catching an abrupt twitch from Reese out of the corner of her eye--his hand raising to block her--a movement he aborted before his fingers raised more than an inch from where they lay over Harold's blanket-covered hand. 

Irked at the protective gesture, she intentionally let her fingers linger before finally pulling back. Reese hadn't been pleased she'd seen Harold's scars, not that he'd had a choice in the matter, given the situation. 'Why' he wasn't pleased, was the question that kept surfacing in her mind, nagging like a festering splinter. 

He might just simply be acting protective of his lover. She'd known they were involved, but they had played it very cool. No PDAs, no emotional handwringing or outbursts when one or the other was in peril. Small gestures were more their style: the briefest touch on an arm, gazes that locked for a fraction longer than mere casual interest would imply, the smallest hitch of breath when the silence on the comms lasted a little too long during an op. They had carried on the work and the battle, never letting their relationship interfere. 

Oh, Reese loomed and hovered maybe a little more now with Samaritan breathing down their necks, but she had always had the impression that he was uncomfortable when Finch was in the field, or anywhere except safely ensconced in front of his computers. She'd felt his cold warning stare painting a target on her back the first time she'd ever met Finch face-to-face. One wrong move and Reese would have finished what her previous employers in the ISA had started. 

She wasn't jealous of their commitment to one another. She didn't want that kind of relationship. If she needed an itch scratched, there were plenty of casual pickups available--and the game she and Root were playing, whatever the hell it was, was delightful edgy and satisfying.

What she resented were the walls of secrets that still existed, despite the fact that the dynamics of their operation had shifted. Finch was still the 'brains', but he was no longer the 'boss', even if his moral compass was still guiding the ship. Harold himself had put them on equal footing, calling them 'friends', vowing that they would push back against Samaritan together. 

And they did work as a unit for the most part, but there were still times, like now, when the secrets Finch and Reese shared closed ranks against her, pushing her out of the loop. 

So Harold had scars-- they all did.

Except...Finch was a man who hated violence, yet he bore evidence that no one who hadn't seen battle should be carrying.

That dichotomy made her uneasy. And she hated that feeling. The last 24-hours had brought home just how small their team was, and how unprepared they were to fight the war they were facing. Each of them brought something unique to the party. They would be hard-pressed to survive the loss of any of them.

She'd never been one for attachments--partly due to her atypical personality and partly by choice. Cole had been an exception, and she hadn't realized how far he'd wormed his way into her 'needs' hierarchy until he was bleeding out in front of her. Coming as close as they had to losing Finch...

Contemplating the empty space he would have left in her world made her angry. Maybe that's why she chose that moment to push for answers. 

"For the longest time," she said quietly, keeping her gaze on Finch, "I thought his injuries were the result of an accident." 

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Reese's cheek ripple, his eyes hood slightly. It was a huge 'tell' for the ex-op. He _did_ know their origin.

"Some of his scars are surgical, but the rest look like they were caused by shrapnel," she pressed.

"It's his story to tell," Reese rasped, voice low and dark. 

Clearly, he wanted her to drop this, but she wasn't intimidated by his posturing. 

"Ingram," she said flatly. "The computer guy you said Finch built the Machine with. He died in a terrorist attack, right here in New York. From what I've been able to dig up, it seems a Harold Wren was recuperating from a car accident in Connecticut around the same time. That was the name on the business card Finch gave me when we first met."

"Be careful what you look for, Shaw," Reese murmured softly. "You might not like what you find."

She scowled. That cryptic reply sounded like something Finch would say. She turned her head to glare at him. "Such as?"

The fingers of his left hand curled into a fist, white-knuckled with tension that turned the air between them frigid. Then he released a slow breath, his hand flattening out over the blanket. "Just let it go, Shaw."

It was more of a plea than a warning, which confused and irritated her even more. She shook her head. "We're supposed to be in this together. A team. Secrets are dangerous. They tend to blow up in your face when you least expect it. We can't afford that kind of vulnerability. You _know_ that."

Reese sat silently, his gaze locked on Harold's sleeping form. With infinite, almost apologetic gentleness, he laid a hand on the older man's blanket-covered chest. 

"You had access to the official reports when you were with the Program. I thought you were smart enough to read between the lines."

There was more than a hint of condescension in his tone. "Meaning?" she asked tightly.

"The attack at the ferry terminal... It was a terrorist bomb." Reese turned his head to look at her finally, eyes dark with sorrow and regret. "Set off by someone just like you and me."

She automatically raked through her memories. Nearly 100 people had been killed or injured in the ferry bombing. The reports that she'd seen in the media had labeled it a terrorist attack, one of the first successful ones since the horror of 9/11. The official reports she had read later detailed the specifics of what appeared to be a legitimate trail of evidence to a middle-east terrorist sect. 

She had been out of country in late September, 2010, stuck in little backwater town in Turkey for far longer than she'd liked, waiting for--

Hersch. Who had been three days late meeting her, no explanation offered for the delay when he finally appeared.

Hersch, Control's right-hand assassin, who wouldn't blink at taking out non-combatants if she gave the order.

Shaw grimaced. She'd carried out as many operations on American soil as foreign, just as she suspected Reese had, despite the CIA being chartered to only work abroad. She'd always thought of them as 'clean' kills. A targeted, surgical strike against an individual 'Research' had pinpointed as a threat. Like taking out Aquino, nuclear engineer turned traitor; the op that had ultimately led to her old partner's death--and her own, at least officially--when Cole had asked too many questions. 

"Protecting the Program was the mandate. Ingram was a loose end," Reese rumbled on. "Finch was maybe thirty feet away from him when the bomb went off."

Shaw's mind reeled at that. The ferry bombing had cost Finch a friend, a partner, a fiance...any chance at living in the light. With his resources, Finch could have disappeared. Lived out his life in comfort somewhere else. It's what she would have done...well, after exacting retribution first. 

But Finch wasn't like her. He wasn't a soldier. He was much more like Cole. Always asking questions, wanting to be 'right' instead of just following orders. Harold was an idealist. He wanted to fix the world. He forgave...surrounded himself with ex-spies and assassins, just like the ones who had taken so much from him...called them 'friends'. 

"I don't get it," she murmured. "How can he stand to even be in the same room with us?"

"I abhor wasting talent, Miss Shaw." 

She glanced down at Finch in surprise. His eyes slowly opened. He blinked twice, as if focus was slow in coming. She could tell the moment the headache kicked in--an increased tightness around his eyes so oddly naked without his glasses. Despite the pain he was obviously feeling, his slightly squinted gaze when it settled on her was clearer than it had been upon prior awakenings. 

"Neither you, nor John, are responsible for the sins of your handlers."

His voice was soft, a little breathy, but each syllable and word was spoken clearly and without hesitation.

Harold's gaze shifted to John for several seconds before catching hers once again. " _All that matters_...is that there are lives to be saved. Your skills, honed at great personal cost, are invaluable in that endeavor."

She stared at him. Lying there he looked so vulnerable. So harmless. Yet he was still a puzzle. A pragmatic strategist who held the reins of two cold-blooded killers--four, if you counted Root and the dog--in one hand, and doled out absolution with the other. 

He hadn't wanted her to know about how he'd earned his scars, because he hadn't wanted her to feel guilty. Hadn't wanted her to carry the burden of knowing she could have been the one ordered to set off the explosives that had killed innocents, and maimed him. 

The realization left her with a sensation that was too close to emotion than she was entirely comfortable with. 

Finch squeezed his eyes shut, then blinked several times, the squint more pronounced. Reese reached into the pocket of his jacket and withdrew a pair of Harold's glasses, deftly sliding them into place on the older man's face. Finch awkwardly pulled his right arm out from under the blanket, and reached up to adjust them, the lines of strain around his eyes easing slightly. 

He looked up at John. "Mr. Grossman?" he asked, voice soft and a little gravelly.

Reese held out a glass of water, slipping his hand carefully behind Harold's neck to help him tilt his head forward to take a sip. "Connors is behind bars and the Feds are scooping up his friends," John explained, letting Finch settle back against the pillow. "Your carjackers are cooling their heels in lockup, and Grossman is on his way to a new life."

Shaw had thought Harold would be pleased with the news that their Number was safe. Instead, he almost looked sad. His eyes closed, mouth tightening. After a moment, he opened his eyes again, gaze warming as it shifted slowly from John to her. "Many thanks," he murmured. 

His focus drifted beyond them, taking in his surroundings, fingers pressed testingly against the air mattress, slight puzzlement quickly changing to recognition. "You've been busy redecorating." 

"Figured you might as well be comfortable. You're going to have to take it easy for a few weeks." She cut off Harold's expected protest quickly. "Professor Whistler is on medical leave. Staying out of town with a friend."

"Mugged, getting off the subway," John interjected smoothly. "According to the police report."

"My department chair is undoubtedly thrilled at the prospect," Harold muttered with a touch of his normal acerbity. "He'll probably demand a doctor's note."

"Already written," Shaw noted, flashing him a wicked smile. She would deliver it personally, eager to take the pompous ass down a peg. 

"I really don't think--"

"We'll handle things, Finch," John assured him firmly. 

Shaw glared at him. "Your brain took a double tap, Harold. Rest, reduced eyestrain, low-impact activities. That's the standard prescription for a concussion." She softened her expression before delivering the rest of the news. "You're going to want to exchange your suits for some heavy sweaters, too. You're probably going to feel cold for a while."

Finch's eyes narrowed, intelligence sparking in their depths. She could practically hear the gears turning that clue in his head. 

"Hypothermia," he said softly.

She nodded. 

His gaze grew distant. "I see. That...that would explain a great deal."

His lips tightened and she was sure he was sorting memories, trying to puzzle out what he'd experienced. Both head injuries and hypothermia could cause gaps in memory. Now that he was lucid, she could assess his cognitive levels. "Do you remember what happened?"

"Events leading up to the carjacking, yes. After I awoke...that's a bit less...clear."

She glanced at Reese who frowned at that admission. Or omission, if, as she suspected, Harold's recollection of events was more intact than he was willing to reveal. Reese would get it out of him at some point, of that she was certain. One last test and she'd be satisfied with Finch's status. 

"What's the product of Professor Whistler's cell phone number?"

Finch fixed her with a glare that was familiar, if not yet at full strength. "I am not a calculator, Miss Shaw."

She crossed her arms over her chest and returned the look. 

He huffed out an exasperated breath. "Oh, very well." He promptly closed his eyes. 

She frowned when he remained silent for several long moments. "Finch?"

"There are numerous ways to answer your query, Miss Shaw," Harold answered, without opening his eyes. "I am simply contemplating which form will best satisfy you."

She whacked him lightly on the shin. He opened his eyes. "370,040,700. Or 3.700407 times ten to the 9th, or 3.700507E+9. If written in binary it would be--"

"Show-off," John said, stopping his rendition before it got any further. 

Harold twitched an eyebrow at her, which she answered with a roll of her eyes. "I'm taking Bear for a run. And food. Something not processed and microwaved." She fixed Harold with a firm stare. "Don't undo my hard work."

He acknowledged her with a bare nod before his eyes drifted shut. She turned the same stare on John. The corner of Reese's mouth quirked upward, but he nodded as well. 

**************

Feeling every scrape and bruise and aching joint, Harold tried to follow the sounds of Shaw's and Bear's exit, but the more he strained to focus, the more his head pounded, making his stomach roll queasily.

"She's gone, you can drop the act," Reese said quietly. "I'm not sure you were fooling her anyway."

Harold let out the breath he'd been holding, with a soft sigh. He appreciated Sameen's medical expertise, but he hated feeling like a bug under the microscope-- a holdover from his hospitalization after the ferry bombing when he'd been at the mercy of caretakers who had been too quick with mind-numbing drugs and impersonal, unwanted touches. Memories her probing questions had inadvertently stirred. 

"Harold."

Once again, John's voice ensnared him, reeling him back to the present. "I forget how perceptive the two of you are, Mr. Ree-" His eyes flew open, gaze flashing around the room as he caught himself. 

John's grip on his left hand tightened. The warm palm on Harold's chest offered as much comfort and understanding as the heat and reassurance in his partner's eyes. "You can say it, Harold. We're safe here."

"Safe..." Harold murmured, grimacing as he tried to settle his aching body and catch his breath. "I endangered us all. If the Library was still under surveillance--" Something in Reese's expression made him hesitate. "John?"

"They _were_ monitoring the building. We dealt with it."

Harold opened his mouth, but dismay and horror stoppered his throat. 

"You followed protocol, Harold. You made contact and you tried to find a safe place to wait out rescue," Reese reassured him. "Unfortunately, between the head injury and the hypothermia, you weren't exactly running on all cylinders. Instinct kicked in. The Library was your 'safe' place. Home. This...Haven, is still too new to have pulled you here."

Harold laid his hand over John's. "Home wasn't... _isn't_ the Library, John. You are. The...images in my head that led me there...you were in all of them."

Reese leaned in to kiss him gently. "So how bad is the headache?"

Harold winced. "If I didn't think it would earn me another week in this bed, I'd ask you to knock me out."

"Shaw left some pain meds. Nothing stronger than Tylenol for a while yet, though."

John offered two tablets with another sip of water.

Harold swallowed them and gingerly turned his head, eying the IV bags and the tubing attached to the port in his arm questioningly.

"Just saline and glucose," John assured him. "Rest awhile. Then I'll get you something to eat."

"Food is...not particularly appealing right now. But you _do_ still owe me dinner. I'll hold you to that." Harold noted the lines of strain around John's eyes, the heavy stubble coating his cheeks. He wasn't the only one who needed some rest. He smoothed his right hand over the empty space beside him. "This bed appears big enough for two."

John's eyes softened. He reached out and gently pulled off Harold's glasses, setting them within reach on an upturned wooden crate. He moved to the opposite side of the bed, turning off a small desk lamp that rested on a similar crate, leaving the room softly lit from the glow of the overhead lights seeping in from the main vaulted room. 

Breathing out a soft sigh of relief at the change in lighting, Harold turned his head slightly to watch John undress. He sighed again, this time in appreciation as Reese removed his shirt, revealing toned skin and rippling muscles. John laughed softly and quickly stripped down to his boxers. The air mattresses dipped slightly as he carefully slid onto the bed, Sig-Sauer under his pillow, settling to rest on his left side. 

Knowing it was going to hurt, but determined, Harold eased to his right side, John's big capable hand lightly gripping his hip to help him turn, keeping him stable until he'd maneuvered himself so he lay with his head on his lover's shoulder. 

Despite John's assistance, moving _had_ hurt, re-awakening every ache and pain, making him clench his teeth to stifle a groan. The gash on the back of his head throbbed mercilessly and he automatically started to reach back to press his hand against it, but John caught his fingers, nuzzling them before easing his hand down to rest in the narrow space between them. 

"Leave it." John softened the raspy command with a featherlight kiss to Harold's bruised temple and a palm against his stubbled jaw, the heat of his touch coaxing the taut muscles to relax. 

More kisses followed, warm and reverent, sprinkled across skin that shivered with pleasure, instead of cold. Deft fingers touched and soothed, stroking not to arouse, but to reaffirm. To celebrate. 

Harold let himself sink into the moment, growing drowsy and replete as he worshiped in his own way, mapping John's skin with long lingering strokes, writing a code of love across old scars.

"When you're ready to talk about it..." John murmured, pulling Harold out of the fragile peace he'd found in the younger man's arms. 

The Library. What was lost. The last thing he ever wanted to revisit if the fragmented images in his mind of its devastation were indeed real. Yet, perhaps Shakespeare had the right of it-- _Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break._

"Soon. It can be beer, this time," he replied softly.

A chuckle rumbled John's chest. "Shaw's not likely to approve any alcohol for a while. Medical leave, remember?"

"About that--"

"Rest, reduced eyestrain, low-impact activities."

"I seem to recall you experiencing numerous blows to the head during our association. You've been back in action the next day. Adamant you were fine."

"Yeah, and you gave me hell about it each time," John responded. "In your own prickly way."

"Hmmph". Harold trailed his fingertips across the smooth skin of John's shoulder. Time seemed to twist and it felt like he was floating outside himself again, seeing himself repeating that motion so many times in the past. His fingers tightened on John's arm, wanting proof he was real.

"Harold?"

Warm breath puffed against him, carrying concern on its wings. He breathed in the scent of John's skin, warm musk and a hint of cordite. Felt John's hand resting heavy and warm on his hip. Tasted the salt of his sweat on the tip of his tongue. 

Real. Not a dream of the past. _The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven._

Oh, how true that was. He carefully tilted his head back a little, so he could see John's face. 

"Just...testing reality. Have you ever felt...unstuck in time?"

John's grip tightened on his hip, anchoring him. "A concussion can do that to you. Hypothermia, too."

"Past and present, all happening at once," Harold murmured, trying to put it all into words that made sense. "...like viewing the world through the eyes of Vonnegut's Tralfamadorians." At John's raised eyebrow, he explained. " _Slaughterhouse Five._ I have a signed first--" 

He grimaced, _felt_ the pain of the loss. And then John's chapped lips pressed against his temple, and he heard his partner's voice in his head-- _"All that matters_ " -- let it go. 

"Vonnegut's novel explores time as deceptive...that all moments are in fact happening at once--one's birth, life, death. Time as a concept, not a reality..."

He shifted so his head was on John's shoulder again, nestled under his chin. Drinking in the solidness of his lover, he let his eyes drift shut. "Unstuck. That's what it was like. There was a part of me that knew I was in trouble. But I kept...finding myself in the middle of past events, instead. It was highly..."

"Confusing."

"Mmmm." 

It might be interesting to read the book again, now, Harold thought idly. He'd first read it as a teen, and hated it, unable to understand or accept the destruction and inhumanity of the war and the aftermath Vonnegut portrayed. He'd ignored Nathan's suggestion he re-acquaint himself with it in college, too wrapped up in the possibilities of computer code that rolled through his mind and chattered out on dot-matrix printers, creating his own brand of science-fiction, tangible and real. He had scoffed at the concepts of predestination and fate, until he had written the first lines of code for The Machine, knowing the choice he had made to build it would link his life to it forever. 

Reese slid a little closer, wrapping him in warmth and safety. 

"Do you believe in fate, John?" Harold asked drowsily, basking in the heat radiating off his lover. "Or free will?"

"I swear, you need an off switch," Reese muttered fondly, planting soft kisses on the top of his head. "We'll debate philosophy tomorrow. Stop thinking. Rest. I've got you." 

Anchored firmly in the moment, Harold let himself slip into dreams.

John was in all of them.

 

*******************************


	9. Chapter 9

Epilogue

***************************

Bear scampered down the steps in advance of Harold, making a beeline for John who was seated at the computers at the outer desk. Reese flipped the Malinois a treat and gave him a good scratch behind the ears. Ostensibly watching the monitors, John surreptitiously studied Harold as he descended the final flight of stairs. 

Three weeks had passed since the carjacking, and today had marked Professor Whistler's return to the classroom. From what Reese could observe, it hadn't overtaxed his partner. There were still a few minor lingering issues from the head injury and the hypothermia, eye-strain headaches and susceptibility to the cold, but his overall physical condition was good, his manual dexterity was back on-line--as John could personally attest to--and his mind and acerbic wit were sharp as ever. 

Finch had been a fairly model patient for the first week. He had complied with Shaw's prescription for rest and low-impact activity, not necessarily by choice, but because his over-stressed body had overruled his busy mind. Reese and Shaw had managed to juggle their schedules so he hadn't been left alone during those seven days. 

As Harold's energy returned, it had been more of a challenge to keep him to sedentary pursuits. He had quickly grown frustrated with the headaches that plagued him when he tried to read or work on his computers. Surprisingly, it had been Shaw who had come up with a temporary solution to placate him. John had returned to the subway one night after a long shift to find Finch stretched out on the air mattresses, a set of headphones over his ears, and a blissful smile on his face. When Reese had leaned in for a welcoming kiss, he caught the faintest sounds of 'screeching cats' emanating from the headphones. Pleased that his partner was content--and delighted that he was going to be spared hours of listening to opera--John had snuggled in next to him. 

Audio books and music CDs had accompanied Reese down below on each subsequent visit. 

Bear had proven to be an invaluable asset, quick to pick up on any distress Harold was experiencing--and trying to hide from them. The Malinois had stuck close, offering companionship and a steadying physical presence for Finch's early ambulatory ventures. He hadn't been shy about nudging Harold's laptop to distract him when he sensed the older man was tiring, and it hadn't been unusual to find Bear curled up on top of Finch's blanket-draped feet, warming his toes and lower legs with his body heat while keeping Finch trapped in one place so he had no choice but to rest. 

The dog's mood had been a dependable barometer for his master's health, especially as they headed into week two and Reese and Shaw had been forced to return to their 'other' lives, leaving Harold alone for longer stretches. If Bear was anxious or refused to leave Finch's side when one of them returned, it meant Harold had overdone it in their absence. If the Malinois was playful, it had been a good day in which Finch had balanced rest with reasonable activity. Harold had come to grudgingly accept the canine's caretaking efforts and stopped trying to push too hard, too fast.

Finch's forced recuperation had produced some positive changes in their Haven. With both John and Sameen spending more time in the subway, they'd had the opportunity to improve their new headquarters. They now had a working shower and restroom, a small kitchenette area, and dependable food storage. Reese had claimed a room off the main chamber for an armory. Shaw had lugged in medical supplies so they'd be more adequately equipped for the next emergency. Under Harold's direction, more cable and electrical conduit had been strung.

In between working the few--easy, fortunately--Numbers the Machine had sent them, they'd had the opportunity to investigate more of the connecting tunnels. Reese and Shaw had carried a camera to record their explorations, allowing Finch to review the footage from the comfort of his make-shift bedroom when he was feeling steady and pain-free enough to do so. As Harold's ability to spend longer periods in front of his monitors increased, he had followed along in real time, noting areas where they would have to improve their security, offering suggestions for masking the entrances they elected to keep. Shaw had noted with satisfaction that an entry point in China Town offered her the chance to grab a snack from the vending machine that Finch guided Reese to rig to conceal that portal. 

John had spent each night, or at least as many hours of the night a Homicide detective's schedule allowed, wrapped around his partner, gentle lovemaking soothing disturbing dreams. In the dark hours of the morning in the third week, Harold had spoken haltingly of what he remembered of the time after the attack and the Library. Although it had been emotionally painful, the sharing seemed to help him come to terms with the loss. While the devastation still haunted his eyes on occasion, he seemed re-energized in their fight against Samaritan.

As Harold entered the main chamber, John was pleased to see very little limp in evidence. He tossed another treat to Bear and greeted his partner with a nod. "How was the first day back at school? Did you play nice with the other professors?"

Harold shot him a glare that clearly illustrated he was back to full strength. "One would think that when one submits detailed lesson plans, they would be followed," he groused. 

Reese tried valiantly to stifle a grin. "One, would." 

Finch huffed a disgruntled sigh and placed his fedora precisely on the coat rack, followed by his overcoat and scarf. His slate gray suit, scaled down for his professorial role, was still impeccable; a deep purple knitted vest completed his ensemble, adding a flash of color--and warmth. He crossed over to join John, one eyebrow raised in question, seeking a status report. 

"Our Number?"

John nodded toward the computer screen he'd been monitoring. "Shaw's enjoying this one."

"Oh?"

"Jamison's a food critic, Finch. He visits up to six restaurants a day. That's practically non-stop eating opportunities for Shaw." John picked up a stack of paper slips and handed them to Harold. "She'd like to be reimbursed out of petty cash."

Harold's eyes widened comically as he reviewed the top receipt. "$36.00 for a tuna salad sandwich? On _white_ bread?" 

"She only tipped ten percent on that one," John offered. "There were spots on her water glass."

Finch scowled at John and gestured for him to move. Reese slid out of the chair and Harold settled into it. With a flick of fingers across the keys, he activated the comm link. "Miss Shaw. Need I remind you that our resources are no longer unlimited?"

_"Relax, Harold. We haven't unzipped that second bag from the Latvian's yet."_

"Nevertheless--" Harold stiffened and Reese held his breath.

On the monitor, the camera angle shifted, offering a view of the menu, the restaurant name prominently displayed-- _Uccellino._ A place that held fond memories--of the meals, and the long intimate evenings that had followed--for both of them.

John was determined to show Harold that they hadn't lost everything of their past. Shaw had willingly gone along with the plan. He placed his hand on his partner's shoulder, squeezing lightly.

"I thought _Del Pino_ was Mr. Jamison's scheduled assignment for today," Finch said flatly. 

_"Trust me, Harold. He wouldn't have enjoyed his meal at Del Pino tonight. Fusco took the Saucier chef into custody an hour ago. Seems he was mortally insulted by Jamison's critique of his Bechamel sauce and decided to return the favor. John suggested this place as an alternative. Thought I'd pick up some take-out for you boys. Any favorites?"_

Harold bowed his head for a moment, then gently cleared his throat. "The _Cappesante ai Venezia_ is quite superb, Miss Shaw." He reached up to lay his hand over John's. "As is the _Filetto di Bue al Pepe Nero._ "

John's favorite dish.

_"Set the table. I'll see you in thirty."_

Harold tapped the mouse, closing the connection. He sat silent for a few moments, then murmured softly, “'Though much is taken, much abides. And though we are not now that strength which in old days moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are; one equal temper of heroic hearts, made weak by time and fate, but strong in will, to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.'” 

Harold nodded once, then abruptly twisted to look at John, slightly panicked. "Do we even _have_ a table?"

John laughed. "Does it matter?" he asked, sliding his hand to the nape of Harold's neck, leaning forward to steal a kiss. 

Harold slid his hands under Reese's suit coat jacket, running his fingertips teasingly up and down John's sides. "All that _matters,_ Mr. Reese," he murmured huskily, "is what your plans are for the next forty-seven minutes."

"Shaw said thirty."

Harold's eyes twinkled mischievously " _Cappesante ai Venezia_ takes thirty-six minutes to prepare properly. Chef Luigi does not cut corners, as you well know. Travel time from _Uccellino_ to the closest entrance to our Haven is fourteen minutes...nineteen if Miss Shaw is wearing heels. That gives us 47 minutes to explore...possibilities, allowing a three to eight minute window to 'set the table'."

"More than enough time," John murmured, pulling Harold into his arms.

************************

Acknowledgements:

“In the end, just three things matter:  How well we have lived , How well we have loved , How well we have learned to let go” --Jack Kornfield

Various references and dialogue from POI episodes, no infringement intended.

Harold's alias (Harry Thacker) : Charles P. Thacker is an American pioneer computer designer. He worked on the Xerox Alto which is the first computer that used a mouse-driven Graphical User Interface

Information on hypothermia and concussion gathered from various websites and articles. 

The Illusion of Safety--2010 album by The Hoosiers,  
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Illusion_of_Safety_(The_Hoosiers_album)

"Nevermore."--Edgar Allan Poe, _The Raven_  
(from the following:  
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,  
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.  
Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,  
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore —  
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"  
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore.")

“If people bring so much courage to this world the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.” --Ernest Hemingway, _A Farewell to Arms_

"Everything is the same, nothing is worthwhile, the world is senseless, knowledge strangles."-- Friedrich Nietzsche

"Edgar Allan Poe!--Poe!--the ruin of the dissolute--in the Bronx--the Bronx! The meaningless whirl, the unbridled flesh, the obliteration of home and hearth! -- and, waiting in the last room, the Red Death!"--Thomas Wolfe

“I'm not lost for I know where I am. But however, where I am may be lost.” -- A.A. Milne, _Winnie-the-Pooh_

“Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.” --William Shakespeare, _Macbeth_

“The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.” -- John Milton, _Paradise Lost_

 _Slaughterhouse Five_ \-- Kurt Vonnegut

“I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.” --Jane Austen, _Pride and Prejudice_

Uccellino-- (Italian) translation-- Little Bird

“Though much is taken, much abides; and though  
We are not now that strength which in old days  
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;  
One equal temper of heroic hearts,  
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will  
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”  
\--Alfred Lord Tennyson, _Ulysses_

**Author's Note:**

> Rated Mature, for established M/M relationship. Not explicit. 
> 
> Early season 4, shortly after they've moved into the subway Haven. The story is on the surface a case fic, but in reality it's unabashedly a hurt/comfort/angst piece. 
> 
> For those of you who miss the Library, this will make you reach for the tissue box-- or else you'll send one of Samaritan's agents after me. :)
> 
> This fic was started and nearly finished before "Terra Incognita" aired, but I do want to acknowledge the common theme of hypothermia and hallucinations upfront. No creative infringements intended. 
> 
> My thanks to TimelessDreamer2 for her assistance and suggestions on the fight scenes.


End file.
